


sensorium

by godisastark



Series: marvel's the sensates [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Marvel/Sense8 crossover, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Violence, anyway enjoy the book i guess, as in marvel characters are sensates, fuck it this is a good read 10/10 would recommend to a friend, i deleted it and reposted it here instead, idk how to tag, mind heist of sorts, not afraid to use them, powers, very cool plot i promise, why? bc im a fucking idiot idk what else to say, yes i know this used to be somewhere else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-03-06 15:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18854128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godisastark/pseuds/godisastark
Summary: When eight people all over the planet see the same hallucination of a man in a white-collared shirt and navy sweater, things start to happen. Especially when it's discovered that these people are connected by the mind and belong to a different species.





	1. limbic resonance

PART ONE - LIMBIC RESONANCE

“Eight strangers from cities around the globe begin having experience that defy explanation.”

 

 

 

**NEW YORK CITY, 8:00 AM**

Steve wakes up that morning with a jolt, head spinning and aching at the same time. He sees the man with the white collar and navy sweater in his mind still, his voice crisp and British, almost like it’s not a real person. Robotic.

 

_“Pay attention,”_ the man had said, and Steve still hears it echoing. 

 

_Fuck_ , Steve thinks. _What the hell is going on with me?_

 

His migraine only gets worse as he gets ready for work. Clocking in not a second after 8:00 AM, Steve barely makes it to his desk before Carter makes the rounds. Older, and a bit of a hardass, police Captain Peggy Carter makes sure to take twenty minutes out of her morning everyday to ensure that everyone who had a shift that day was present and accounted for. It’s that kind of special and personable attention that makes Steve lucky he found a job at the 9th Precinct, and grateful that he’s there to stay.

 

“Hey, man!” Sam’s voice booms in between Steve’s ears. “Damn, son. You look like absolute _shit_.” His voice bounces around in Steve’s head and rattles his brain.

 

Steve manages a chuckle. “Your vote of confidence, as usual, Sam, is really appreciated.”

 

Sam just looks confused, if not worried. “Seriously, man, how fucked up did you get last night? I’m starting to think your ass is gonna end up like your daddy’s if you keep up this way. I saw his raggedy ass down at Pete’s the other night, looking worse for wear, might I add.”

 

At Steve’s look, Sam promptly shuts the hell up, but Steve still takes what he said to heart.

 

“Come on, man,” he says before Sam can muster up an apology, “we gotta get patrolling early today.”

 

Sam sighs. “Yeah, yeah. Alright man, let’s go.”

 

 

**SAINT PETERSBURG, 7:00 PM**

James scrubs his hair back from his face, containing the heavy sigh threatening to escape. He must now show signs of agitation, will face retribution otherwise. His handler is speaking to him, but he doesn’t hear a word. All that runs through his mind is the British man in his dream.

 

James barely speaks a word of English, yet when the man spoke English perfectly, he understood every word.

 

On top of that, James has been thinking lately— _free will is not advised. Asset must not_ think _freely for fear of cognitive reassignment_ —and he’s come to the conclusion, privately of course, that James is a very English name. James can speak Russian, Romanian and German fluently, yet can hardly speak a lick of English, and finds himself with an English name. The entire situation is odd to him, but he forces himself not to dwell, not to _think_. The last thing he needs is his memory wiped again.

 

Training himself to forget the dream, he refocuses on his handler.

 

“You’re next target is a man in Saint Petersburg by the name of Nicholas Fury. You do not need to know why he is your target. All you must know is that he is an enemy of HYDRA. It is your responsibility to take him out, little to no strings leftover once you have finished.”

 

It was the same mantra drilled into his head every time. James is long since used to the speech. Target’s name is blank, you do not need to know why, enemy of HYDRA, blah blah blah. 

 

“Do you understand, _soldat_?” his nameless handler asks.

 

James schools his expression into one of stone and nods stoically. “Yes,” his words are emotionless and practiced. “I understand.”

 

 

**WAKANDA, 7:00 PM**

All around him, colors explode in the form of powder bombs and glittering streamers, shot up by the citizens but looking as if they’re falling from the heavens, showering the new King and his family with approval, guidance and direction.

 

“All hail the King! All hail the King!” the growing crowd chants, thousands gathered in the tightly-packed spot to catch a glimpse of the young man recently crowned as King.

 

T’Challa accepts the congratulations offered to him by his people, both royal and common. While the elation of being crowned king spreads over him, warmer than the high Wakandan sun, T’Challa still feels the emptiness inside of him, the pain he’s felt since his father’s death.

 

Though he knows there was no possible way to prevent it, T’Challa still mourns the feeling of guidance and protection he always had from his father, and wishes he was here to watch as the crown was placed on his head, his feet pruning in the chilling water as he stood before his people, looking up at them scattered amongst the cliffside, cheering, dancing, chanting, singing and calling for him to lead them as a people.

 

T’Challa has known stress in his life, but none compared to this. In this moment, he is afraid that he will fail as king and be known as a disappointment to the people.

 

“Nervous, brother?” Shuri asks, appearing beside him. She has a teasing expression on her face, and T’Challa can’t help but laugh.

 

“Why,” he responds, voice just as light, “would I tell you if I were?”

 

Shuri giggles and nudges his hip with her own, crossing her arms over her chest the way T’Challa has is. “I can see it on your face, brother. You wish he was alive and could take the burden off your shoulders.”

 

The sudden serious nature of the conversation stuns T’Challa, but nonetheless, he refuses to let Shuri catch him off guard. 

 

“You are right, as usual,” T’Challa says. “Though I am still worrying over my dream. It was the oddest thing, I have never seen or heard from anyone else the ancestors sending a white man to our visions at night. I am wondering what the implications of that could possibly be.”

 

Shuri nods, contemplative. “Yes. It is very unlikely for the Black Panther to send visions of white men. What use do we have for colonists that only say critical things to us? What purpose does the white man serve in our society? None! At least not here. Yes, it truly is a mystery, but, as we say, the Black Panther works in mysterious-“

 

“Okay, okay, she has jokes, I see,” T’Challa interrupts, letting Shuri have her five minutes of fame. “I think this was something else, though. This vision was unlike any I have ever received from the Black Panther. It had a different air. Almost warning me of something. I felt no guidance or reassurance, only the feeling that I am meant to stay on my toes.”

 

Shuri shrugs it off. “Brother, do not worry yourself over such trivial things. You have just been crowned King of Wakanda, you need not worry over a supposed vision from a supposed spirit. An entire country awaits your leadership now!”

 

“The spirit of the Black Panther runs through our hearts and minds, Shuri. You know this to be true,” T’Challa chides.

 

Shuri only rolls her eyes. “Of course, T’Challa. And father was the Black Panther until his death, even when he could hardly walk on two feet,” she’s joking, of course, but it leaves an uncomfortable feeling in T’Challa’s chest regardless.

 

The lore surrounding the Black Panther was spotty, at best. There were conflicting stories, overlapping ones that hardly make any sense in the context of what the people know to be true. The man who accepts the throne as the next King of Wakanda also drinks the juice of the herbs that grow just south of the royal city, accepting the burden and responsibilities of Black Panther and protector of Wakanda. T’Chaka’s obvious health ailments kept him from serving as both King and Black Panther in the later years of his life, and if that was the case, then that must surely have something to do with T’Chaka’s subsequent death.

 

Dwelling on the nature of his father’s death proves to only further stress T’Challa out.

 

“T’Challa! Get out of your head!” Shuri was saying when T’Challa refocuses. “Everything will be fine.”

 

T’Challa nods. “Yes,” he concedes, “I believe today will be a very good day.”

 

 

**VENICE, 6:00 PM**

From his office, Tony pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying to ease the dull pounding behind his forehead. Standing across from him is a very important client, but Tony can’t seem to get a grip on his migraine.

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. Am I boring you?” his client asks maliciously. “As I said before, I would much prefer not having to deal with _you_ if I can avoid it.”

 

Instantly, Tony shakes his head and forces himself out of his stupor. “What do you mean, ‘not deal with me if you can avoid it’?”

 

His client smirks. “We know who you are, Mr. Stark. You are not a businessman. You are playing dress-up here in Venice, for reasons I cannot figure out. You are not serious enough for the job, and I’d like to deal with Mr. Stane. Is he not your partner? Or rather, supervisor.”

 

Exhaling quickly, Tony’s hand closes into a fist, a tactic he often uses with stupid people who underestimate his business savvy. He starts to see red, but before anything can escalate, there’s a knock at his office door, and it opens to reveal Obadiah.

 

“Hey! What’s going on?” Obadiah asks in Italian with an American accent. It bothers Tony that he doesn’t seem to want to learn an Italian accent, and is perfectly comfortable speaking the language broken. After all, it was his choice to follow Tony to Venice, the least he could do is learn the language of the people here.

 

The client quickly puts a charmed expression on and turns towards Obadiah. The two start in quick conversation, loud enough that Tony feel excluded.

 

Obadiah then looks at Tony and mid-sentence says, “Tony, a couple espressos?” returning to his train of thought without a hitch.

 

Helpless, Tony makes for the coffee machine, now knowing he won’t be getting anything out of this business deal.

 

 

**ICELAND, 4:00 PM**

The food is disgusting. Thor balks as he forces it down his throat. The fish isn’t cooked enough, and it’s sure to make him sick later on. The fire had died before he could finish preparing it, and Thor had remembered how the Japanese eat their fish essentially raw, and that everything would be fine if he did the same. Now, he feels his stomach gurgling unpleasantly, and he knows that he made a wide miscalculation regarding how much raw food he can stomach in a sitting.

 

It’s winter, so it’s dark outside, not a single ray of sunshine in the vast, cloudy sky. The air is still damp from the earlier rain, and the lack of sunshine makes for very cold weather. 

 

“Stupid weather,” Thor mumbles to himself, no one with him to sympathize for his plight. “No sun for months, who decided that?”

 

Ever since his exile, Thor feels now more than ever the true isolation Asgard has always upheld, since its creation back during the Viking era. One of the few first world isolationist countries existing on the planet, Asgard has always run just fine with all of its people inside of it, taking no tourists, and rarely letting anyone leave. Thor’s exile was a rare occurrence, one he wishes didn't have to end the way it did.

 

Grunting and trying to ignore the pain in his stomach and head, Thor shuffles away from the rickety dining table, each step causing loud creaks in the unstable floorboards of the abandoned cottage he’d found in the countryside while looking for a place to duck for the previous night. 

 

He pulls back the blinds, but it does nothing, since it’s dark outside regardless. Thor’s resolve grows weaker as he feels the walls of the cottage closing in on him, air leaving his lungs quicker than he can breathe it in.

 

“I need to get out of here,” he pants. “ _I need to get out of here!_ ”

 

Getting stir crazy, Thor feels his body get lighter, and he feels pressure on the left side of his face, running all the way down his body. He realizes it’s because he’s fallen to the floor, too weak to stand. He fainted.

 

As he fades in and out, he hears, “ _Pay attention_ ,” once more.

 

 

**MOSCOW, 7:00 PM**

“Natasha, _dorogoy_ , what is going on? Why are you missing steps? You had this choreography down last week! What is happening?”

 

Groaning, Natasha rolls up to her feet from her position on the floor. Her dance ends with her lying down, but she knows she will need to redo her steps over and over until the choreographer is satisfied. 

 

“Ms. Romanov…” Clint trails off in an unpleasant voice. “What is going on, hm? Talk to me.”

 

“I don’t know, Clint,” Natasha groans, shoving her right hand through her thick red hair in frustration. When she was cast as the lead, Princess Odette, there was talk of her dyeing her hair for the role, either to a neutral brown or a tasteful blonde, but Natasha decided to keep her hair as the rich red it usually is. There were many things Natasha compromised for this role, but her beautifully colored hair was not one of them. “I’m not in the right head space today.”

 

Clint scoffs. “Clearly,” hopping up onto the stage, he touches his toes to Natasha’s, looking at her equally in the eyes. “Listen, we have mere weeks until curtain’s drawn, and I need you focused and working these steps, or else we’ll have to start using your understudy as our lead. Would you like to be replaced by Priscilla? I’m sure she’d love to replace you.”

 

Eyes narrowing, Natasha says in a clean voice, “I won’t need replacing. I know the steps. I just have this migraine I can’t shake today.”

 

“Must be from the wine last night,” Clint says lowly, but he winks afterwards, inconspicuously so no one sees. His eyes twinkle under the bright spotlights on the stage.

 

Natasha smirks, pushing Clint away from her in one decisive shove. “Must be.”

 

Shaking out her hands, and in turn her entire body, Natasha places herself at the starting point of the piece, body stilling in the first pose. “Run it again,” she says, determined, “I’ll get it.”

 

Just before the swelling music starts, Natasha hears his voice again, “ _pay attention_ ” soft, yet direct, in that British accent, despite the fact that Natasha only speaks Russian.

 

“Focus,” she murmurs under her breath, and she dances perfectly.

 

 

**CHICAGO, 11:00 AM**

Over the noisy hum that fills the restaurant, Wanda tries to speak to her customers. Her waitressing uniform is particularly itchy that day, probably due to the all-around pain she feels in her body. What’s more discomfort in the grand scheme?

 

“Shortstack pancakes and sides of bacon and egg, yes?” Wanda asks, trying to make her English as understandable as possible.

 

The man sitting at the table still shakes his head, and Wanda mentally prepares herself for a tiring morning. “No. Not one egg. The menu says it comes with two however we ask for it prepared. That’s two scrambled eggs.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Wanda concedes, “my apology. Shortstack pancake with side bacon and eggs, yes?”

 

Again, he shakes his head, and Wanda silently wonders what she’s done wrong this time. “The shortstack has multiple pancakes so that’s a shortstack of pancakes, not pancake. You said it right earlier, did you change it?”

 

Wanda is the one shaking her head this time. “No, sir! I did not change! Sometime my plural and singles get mixed up, sir. Multiple pancake, multiple bacon, multiple egg. I have it here, sir. Would you like to see?”

 

This time the man is scowling at her, and for this she knows why. 

 

“If you’re living in America, you might want to try speaking better English, girl.”

 

Wanda’s face grows hot, and she feels tingling against her fingertips. “Vy b khotily, shchob ya hovoryv na ridniy movi?” _Would you prefer if I spoke in my native tongue?_ After a few moments of the man simply staring at her in shock, Wanda speaks again. “YA ne dumav.” _I thought not._

 

Snatching the stack of menus piled at the table, Wanda stalks off, fuming. In her peripheral, she can see red sparks flying off of her, and she breathes in deeply, trying to contain them for as long as she possibly can.

 

Wanda drops the menus off at the hostess’ stand, hangs the table’s order on the revolving rack, then nearly runs towards the employee bathrooms, thanking the gods when she sees that no one is in there.

 

When the door squeaks shut, Wanda releases her energy, red filling her vision and the tiny room, she sends toilet paper and paper towels flying everywhere, and a few soap bars hit the mirror, leaving multiple cracks in the otherwise spotless glass. 

 

Once her episode is over, Wanda breathes in deeply. The red recedes back into her fingertips, but her anger remains.

 

Later on, when Wanda’s shift has ended in the wee hours of the night, she will think on the beautiful and lulling voice in her mind from her dream the night before. She swears she saw the man during her shift, but his voice was unforgettable.

 

_“Pay attention.”_

 

 

**NEPAL, 9:45 PM**

Bruce takes off his glasses with a sigh, folding them and gently placing them on the nightstand next to him. He breathes in the aura of varying candles and aromas burning around him, the peace of Nepali finally setting him in a state of drowsiness.

 

Concern still washes over Bruce as he thinks over the dream he had the night before, a man, only a little older than himself, lying on a dirty mattress in the middle of the room, having a seizure. Bruce had been quick to try and point that out, but he found that he couldn't speak.

 

Writhing on the mattress still, the man, _Vision, Bruce somehow knew his name_ , reached over to a rusty box lying beside him and opened it with shaking hands, reaching in and grabbing a syringe.

 

Bruce had tried to warn the man, but again it feel on deaf ears. The man had uttered one phrase before harshly stabbing himself in the arm with the needle, injecting the unidentified drug into his system. 

 

_“Pay attention.”_

 

And oh, how Bruce had paid attention. When he woke up the next morning, he hadn't known what to think. Instead, he attempted to go about his usual day, spending countless hours in his secluded and private labs, working with nuclear chemicals all day. 

 

As night approached, Bruce realized his migraines were far more intense than usual, and resigned himself to an early and quiet night in. 

 

Bruce yawns and rubs his sleep-filled eyes, laying back on the scratchy mattress, reminding him of the mattress Vision was laying on in his dream. With scrambled thoughts and an uneasy mind, Bruce went to sleep.


	2. i am also a we

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello im back

PART TWO - I AM ALSO A WE

 

 

 

 

**NEW YORK CITY, 5:00 PM**

Steve’s mind drifts in and out of focus throughout the day, and when his shift finally ends, Sam is still giving him the same strange looks from the morning.

 

“Dude,” Sam starts, “you sure you’re okay, man? You’ve been kinda… _you know_ , all day. Is something up?”

 

Steve is quick to shake his head in an attempt to leave the precinct quicker. “Nah, Sam, I’m fine. Got nothing to worry about.” Steve puts a gentle smile on his face, eyes kind and trusting. Sam is quick to shrug it off and wish Steve a good night.

 

When Steve plops into the seat of his truck, he almost yelps when he looks over and sees a man sitting in the passengers seat.

 

“Who the fuck are you?!” he yells at the man.

 

He’s burly and muscular, though not as defined as Steve (which is totally _not_ something Steve is worrying about right now), with long, unkept dark brown hair, hanging off both of his shoulders and into his face, masking it from Steve. He looks down and is shocked to see that his left arm is completely silver, a metal of some sort, with a red star blazed onto the bicep. The man’s gaze shoots over to Steve when he hears him yell, and his electric blue eyes are feral and dangerous in their gaze.

 

Steve suddenly feels the need to leave his truck and let the man have it, though he also has an odd feeling that the man isn't really there.

 

“My head…” the man mumbles, trailing off, his eyes tinting with confusion. He has a thick accent…Russian, maybe?

 

Steve gulps. “Mine too.”

 

Suddenly, a bright light flashes on and off in Steve’s vision, like headlights from traffic coming the opposite way, and when he blinks away the new sensation, the man has disappeared, not a trace of him left over. Still shaken, Steve closes his door and sits back in his truck, hands rubbing the steering wheel over and over in a soothing motion.

 

“I’m seeing things, I’m hearing things,” Steve says to himself, “I’m going crazy.”

 

The man’s eyes are burned into Steve’s memory, and he has a feeling it isn't the last time he’ll see them.

 

 

**SAINT PETERSBURG, 12:00 AM**

James’ brain filtered through the different sensations hitting him at once, resigned to a motionless state of being as a poor driver tore through the backroads of Saint Petersburg in a giant truck, big enough to hold a super soldier with enough determination to try and find a way to escape.

 

One moment, James had been sitting alone on the back bench of the van, feeling each pothole down to his spine, metal and flesh hands crossed with one another, and the next second he heard a strained and panicked “Who the fuck are you?!” in perfect Romanian. James’ head swiftly looked to his left, where a blond man sat, eyes wide and body set in frozen panic. What was curious was that the man spoke Romanian, in Saint Petersburg, citizens would rather be caught dead than speak Romanian in a patriotic Russian city. 

 

James spared a glance at the driver, who had paid no attention to the sudden outburst, then looked back at the man. He was handsome, and _very_ muscular. James felt his length stirring in his pants, something he hadn't felt since he was an adolescent going through puberty. 

 

The only words James could string together through the pain still coursing through his entire body was “My head.” The blond man’s gaze softened just enough for James to detect it. He replied, “Mine too.”

 

They neared the nightclub, and it is so secure that they have to drive through a gated entrance with too bright lights blinking down at them as they do so. James closes his eyes briefly to shield his gaze from it, and when he opens them again, the blond man is gone.

 

Feeling a tad disappointed, but not letting it show, James refocuses his gaze forward, unblinking and unmoving.

 

Once they reach the back entrance, the driver turns around to face James, expression stiff in an attempt to be intimidating. If only the man knew that James could crush his throat within seconds if he truly wished it. With only one hand, metal or flesh, it didn't matter. Whichever James preferred.

 

“Remember, _soldat_ , acquire target Nicholas Fury, in town for business discussions with SHIELD operatives. Take him out and leave no witnesses or collateral damage. Understood?”

 

James steels himself, reaching over to where the blond man had sat momentarily, where an assortment of knives are displayed in a device strapped to the interior wall of the van. He grabs four, hiding one in each boot, another in his back pocket, and one in the sleeve of his right shirt, ready for him to grab at random.

 

“Mission perimeters are always the same,” James says in a monotone voice, “I always understand.”

 

The driver nods and pulls at a gear, then the door to James’ right slides open. “Do not fail us, _soldat_ ,” he says as James gets out.

 

James turns around. “Shut up,” he says, just as the door slides closed again.

 

All the gears in his brain clicking into place, James once again refocuses on the mission. Find Nicholas Fury.

 

Take him out.

 

 

**MOSCOW, 12:00 AM**

 

Natasha shuts the door behind her as smoothly as possible, hearing the lock click into place before daintily removing her hands from the knob, backing away slowly and carefully just in case.

 

Escaping Clint’s apartment after a night together was always tough on Natasha’s heart, but it was something that had to be done. The shit she’d get for sleeping with the lead choreographer of the ballet she’s dancing the lead in isn’t something Natasha particularly wants to go through. Swan Lake is her dream, and she’ll be damned if she lets something as trivial as a bedmate take that away from her.

 

So she slinks out of the apartment building and walks briskly down the sidewalk, ignoring the air that’s dangerously close to leaving frostbite on her nose, and using her skills in grace to leave without a sound.

 

Until she finds herself on the ground after running into a cloaked man.

 

“Hey!” she calls out, at first to swear, then to grab his attention, because as soon as he bumps into Natasha, the man is gone, practically running down the street, and Natasha is left with a strange device that glows soft blue in the nearly pitch black night.

 

Curious, Natasha grabs the device and stuffs it in her inside coat pocket. It feels heavy and expensive, and Natasha smiles with glee. If the device was of any importance to the man, he would have come back around to come pick it up. Since he didn’t it’s fair game to Natasha.

 

As Natasha walks home, she pulls the device out of her pocket and does another once-over. It’s round and very light, small enough to fit against her chest, and when she turns it over to the back, she reads: **T. STARK**

 

The name rings bells—she thinks she’s read the name in the paper—but it holds no significance to her so she stuffs it back into her pocket. 

 

And when she wakes up hours later in a fit of cold sweat from nightmares of past lives, the Winter Soldier is standing in her room.

 

 

**CHICAGO, 4:00 PM**

 

“So your nightmare, it was very vivid, yes?”

 

Wanda hums around the mango she’s devouring, a light snack at the apartment before she turns back around for a six hour evening shift at the diner. Her twin brother, Pietro, is standing in the kitchen across from where she sits at the small island they were fortunate enough to have included in the apartment.

 

Swallowing quickly, Wanda replies. “Yes. As if I was living it. It was terrifying, I’ve never experienced anything like it. My dreams are usually so vague and leave me wondering. This was not like that.”

 

It’s Pietro’s turn to hum, though his is in curiosity. “Maybe you ate something. Did you have dinner at the diner last night? Or did you not, and it was a dream of hunger?”

 

Wanda scoffs and shoves another mango slice in her mouth. 

 

Part of having a twin means essentially sharing a brain, which is what’s so frustrating about not being able to explain to Pietro what exactly is happening in her head. Pietro and Wanda’s connection is unlike any she's ever seen or heard of, and yet this dream seems so foreign, to try to explain to Pietro would mean making a fool of herself.

 

“It was almost like reality. Like I was actually witnessing a real event. Vision seemed so real, and so hurt. I felt the pain he was feeling, even though I was an outsider watching. I felt the prick of the needle when he shoved it in his arm. I felt the wave of drugs pass over him before he fell asleep. I felt the fear coursing through his veins. Every part of the experience, I felt. It’s so hard to explain in real terms, but it was almost like Vision is a real person and I was seeing something happening at across the country at the same time of my sleeping. Like Vision actually did shoot himself up with drugs to make him pass out, and he really did need to get away from something.”

 

“That’s…weird,” is all Pietro can come up with, and Wanda doesn't blame him for it. It’s very odd indeed.

 

Wanda sighs. “I just wish I knew how Vision was doing now. And what he meant by _pay attention_. I have too many questions, and he's not here to answer them.”

 

“Probably because he's not real,” Pietro quips unhelpfully. 

 

Ignoring her brother, Wanda stares into the distance, losing touch with reality as she does so. When she takes a step towards the window, her apartment is replaced with a hot, humid forest, causing her clothes to stick to her body almost immediately. Confused and scared, Wanda searches for a clue as to what’s going on, but all she finds is a man dressed in white, flowing robes, embroidered with purple and black etches, cross-legged at an apparent burial sight, a collection of wreaths and other flowers gathered together, at the center, a stone with a name written on it. _T’Chaka._

 

“Hello?” Wanda greets, and regrets it when the man jolts and leaps to his feet, nearly choking on his breath at the sight of Wanda. “I’m sorry! I didn't mean to frighten you. I don't really know what’s going on. Can you help me? Where am I?”

 

The man’s eyebrows furrow. “You do not know where you are?” 

 

_Odd,_ Wanda thinks, _that the man is speaking perfect Sokovian. She’s never witnessed a black man speak her native tongue._ Wanda shakes her head to answer his question though, hoping to shed some light on her situation. “I’ve never been here before.”

 

“You are in Wakanda. You are technically also invading my home, as this is property of the royal family, and this is the sight of my father’s burial.” The man’s eyes widen, as if he wasn't expecting to say all of that out loud.

 

Still confused, Wanda only nods, taking a few steps closer to the man, who is already starting to relax. “I can feel your pain. It’s the only thing I can read at the moment. Are you in pain?”

 

“What in the hell am I supposed to make of that?” the man asks, incredulous. “Who are you? Why are you on my family’s land? How did you even enter the country?”

 

“I can read emotions and thoughts,” Wanda says, explaining, sending light sparks of red across her fingertips. “I was experimented on when I was a teenager, and now as an adult I have honed my abilities.” She doesn't know exactly why she's revealing all of this information to a complete stranger in a random Wakandan forest, but after her dream of Vision, Wanda’s learned not to question. The man in front of her has a mind that seems almost connected to her own, and she feels the need to trust flowing both ways.

 

The man’s face hardens during her explanation. “You feel what I am thinking? Then you know I am in turmoil? Do you know why I am in said turmoil? What changes I have recently gone through to get to this point?”

 

Wanda stops to focus for a moment, then responds, hitting her mark. “You feel loss, heavily. Your…father, oh I am so sorry. It has shaken you and everyone around you, as you must fill the role of—you’re a king?” Her eyes are wide and her expression is dazed as she takes in the man once more, this time in the royal caliber he apparently deserves.

 

“I was just crowned earlier today. When did you arrive?” the man asks.

 

“Just now. I was in my apartment one moment, and the next I was here. My twin is probably very worried about me,” Wanda chuckles. She takes in the scene before her. “What are you doing?”

 

The man looks back at the burial sight, eyes low and Wanda feels his strong sense of loss and mourning coupled with fear and anger. “I was trying to send a message to my father, T’Chaka, in hopes that he would enlighten me on what exactly is going on in my head.”

 

Wanda searches, she can feel the openness the man’s mind now has, almost as if he’s given her permission to read his thoughts, and lights up at what she finds next. “You dreamt of Vision too?”

 

The man startles again. “Vision? That is his name? The man from my dream?”

 

“I only dreamt him as well. He was lying on a mattress and he—“

 

“—injected himself with some sort of drug. Fell asleep and told me to pay attention,” the man finishes.

 

Wanda squeals, feeling a piece of the puzzle fall into place. “Yes! Exactly! Why did we both have the same dream? This doesn't make sense?”

 

The man pauses for a moment, then turns back to face the burial sight. He sits back down on the dark soil.

 

“This is very curious. I have not known this to happen before. Sit with me. We will both ask T’Chaka for answers.”

 

Knowing T’Chaka is the man’s father, and knowing the man has similar questions to her, Wanda finally allows herself to fully trust the man before her.

 

So Wanda sits.

 

 

**SAINT PETERSBURG, 12:27 AM**

 

It only takes moments for James to locate Nicholas Fury. The difficult part was waiting until he was completely alone. This was James’ least favorite part. Waiting always left him bored and unsatisfied. He spent the time imagining scenarios where he crushed the column of Fury’s throat, slashed Fury’s wrists and watched as he bled out on the pristine marble floors of the club, wrapped his arms around his sternum and _squeezed_ with all the force he could muster, which was a lot in relative terms, feeling his sternum crack and crush under the pressure.

 

His moment is given to him when Fury excuses himself to use the bathroom, following no one and being followed by no one. James immediately sets out to follow him, expertly weaving in and out of the party-goers, making his way to the men’s room, the task being the only track on his mind.

 

James shuts and locks the main door behind him and quickly checks the stalls, there are no other men in the bathroom with them, so James waits by the paper towel dispenser for Fury to finish.

 

Moments later, Fury leaves his stall and stops at the sight of James standing with perfect posture, hands at his sides, with clenched into fists. He keeps a calm composure, not letting the obvious fear radiating off of him—James can smell it from a mile away—affect the way he behaves in front of the assassin.

 

After several moments of the two staring at each other, Fury breaks eye contact and shuffles towards the sinks. “I knew you would come for me eventually.”

 

James remains silent, knowing the open and casual tone Fury used means it won’t be the last thing he says.

 

“Though I am surprised they pulled all the stops out to get me. After all, you’ve killed everyone else in my cluster besides Alexander Pierce, and with the two of us being the only ones left, that leaves me quite vulnerable, doesn't it? So vulnerable that they could've just sent one of their regular assassins.”

 

Though James isn't sure what Fury means by ‘cluster’, he still remains where he is, making no noise and not moving a muscle.

 

“On the other hand, Pierce was always one for the dramatics. I’ve known that since he had Hank Pym slaughtered before my very eyes twenty years ago.”

 

James goes to stand next to Fury at the sink next to his, making no other indication that he's going to strike. The element of surprise is one James exacts often, leaving an adrenaline rush throughout his whole body that he can ride for, at most, hours before his handlers drug him into submission again.

 

“So, if this is how I’m gonna go, can I at least make a phone call? I gotta make sure my boy Vision’s still hanging tight. You know how it is, right? A homie’s a homie.”

 

Unexpectedly, James starts when he hears Vision’s name. For some reason, it’s a name he recognizes. He’s never heard that name spoken out loud, and he’s also never heard a name so odd before. Ashamed of breaking his focus during a mission, James silently scolds himself, but not before drawing curious eyes from Fury.

 

“Wait, do you know Vision?” James’ left eye twitches, which is all Fury needs. “Aw hell, you were reborn, weren't you? Damn, sensates really aren't catching any breaks these days, are we?”

 

“What the hell is a sensate?” James dares to ask, his voice gruff and without layers, refusing to give up even a hint of curiosity.

 

Fury rolls his eyes dramatically and turns towards James, a snarl on his lips. “It’s what I am, it’s what your handler Pierce is, it’s what Vision is, and, based on how you keep reacting when I say his motherfuckin’ name, I’d say you and seven others are too. A sensate is another species of man, idiot. You’ve been killing us for years, and you just became one.” Fury scoffs and shakes his head. “Man, if you don’t kill me, this irony might.”

 

James turns to face Fury in a move so calculated and smooth, even Fury looks impressed at the way he’s kept his composure. “What did you mean, ‘reborn’?”

 

Quirking his eyebrow—the one not covered by the eyepatch—Fury responds. “Every sensate is born ‘normal’ in the relative term, as a homo sapien, then, once they reach a certain age, depending on the cluster, eight of us are reborn into homo sensorium, where we form a cluster, as we call it, and are connected by the mind. These eight people are born on the same day and, through their connection, now share a mind and body if they want to.”

 

“That’s ridiculous,” James says dryly.

 

“You right,” Fury nods, his lips forming a half-smile, “but I think it just happened to you. You probably dreamt of my homeboy Vision, right? And now you’re seeing shit you know you ain’t supposed to be seeing. What, with all the drugs Pierce got you on now, it’s not wonder you can’t tell the difference between your hallucinations and your reality.”

 

It’s the last thing Fury says before James sticks the knife hiding his right sleeve in the older man’s artery, removing it immediately to keep from staunching the blood flow, a red flood immediately pouring from the man’s neck, covering the left side of his body and dripping onto the white marble floor.

 

As Fury falls to the floor, motionless and pale, James backs up a few steps. On a whim, he looks into the mirror, and in the reflection behind him, he sees the blonde man once more.

 

He hooks horrified. “What the hell happened here?” He looks at James for answers, but he cannot provide any.

 

“What had to be done,” is what he says instead, looking away from the mirror and stepping over to the window, pushing it open with his left hand and grabbing a device with his right from the belt around his waist. “Target secured. Mission successful,” James says into the device, sticking one leg out the window. “Heading out the southeast window on the third floor. Cleanup needed in the bathroom.”

 

The van’s waiting for him by the time he makes it to the ground, another stopped in behind them filled with cleaning supplies.

 

James sighs and rubs his temples, though his migraine is starting to fade, itching to get back to base. Whoever the hell Alexander Pierce is, he and everyone he's working with have a lot to answer for.

 

 

**WAKANDA, 12:56 AM**

 

As T’Challa sits with the strange woman, he realizes that he hasn't once tried to question her on how she broke through his country’s external forcefield. Though, she had just told him that she simply just _appeared_ in Wakanda. That had been tough for T’Challa to swallow. 

 

Of course, inviting her to sit with him to try and send a message to his father and, by extension, the Black Panther spirit, isn’t exactly what T’Challa would call a normal response. The entire encounter was just odd, there was no other word to describe it.

 

“Why do you pray?” the slight woman asks, her Xhosa perfect and crisp, which only confused T’Challa more. If she had only just arrived in Wakanda, how does she speak the language perfectly? Even the clicks in the dialect are spoken with precision, flowing like a native Wakandan.

 

Tabling that thought for later, T’Challa replies. “It’s not just praying. It is getting in touch with my ancestors, my guidance in this world. As king, and now protector, of Wakanda, it is my duty to be aligned with the teachings of our past leaders, both recent and ancient. I do this through praying, my father did it through an odd dance ritual I, thankfully, only witnessed once.”

 

The memory of his father, T’Challa only being ten at the time, dancing wildly in a circle, prancing throughout the throne room with no one else around, immediately floods his brain. Beside him, the woman giggles.

 

“I see it,” she says through her spurts of laughter, “he looks so silly.”

 

“It is the most ridiculous I have ever seen him look in my entire life,” T’Challa answers, laughing along, “but it is my most precious memory I have of him.”

 

There’s a moment more of silence before she breaks it. “How did he die?” she asks timidly.

 

T’Challa holds a sigh in, though he knows the woman will feel it regardless. “Old age. He fell asleep one night and did not wake the next morning. It has been decades since a king died of anything other than natural causes—though our nation is peaceful generally, there are still those who seek to end the rule of one family, to no success—but I still feel the loss as greatly as he did his father. It does not matter how they die…” T’Challa trails off, letting the heaviness of his emotions speak for him.

 

“It does not matter how they die,” the woman repeats, “it still does hurt. I know, trust me.”

 

T’Challa turns to look at the woman, curiosity coiling his mind. “How so?”

 

The woman curves into herself. “My parents,” she says meekly, “they were killed during a bombing. My home country, Sokovia, has been the fighting ground of many wars it is not a part of, so vulnerable and small, easily overtaken and with such an unstable government. It was only a matter of time before it all fell apart—“ her voice breaks, and she stops talking after that.

 

Gingerly, T’Challa reaches out a hand and touches the woman’s shoulder. _How odd_ , he thinks, _that I am comforting her through this pain and I do not even know her name._

 

“What is your name?” he asks softly, eyes still trained on her.

 

The woman meets his gaze, her own eyes watering and spilling over. “Wanda.”

 

“Wanda,” he repeats, like a spell. “I am T’Challa.”

 

“T’Challa,” she repeats in the same fashion, “I am sorry about your father. I still feel your pain, and know that I suffer with and for you. I have lost nearly everything, and still I know I do not bear the same burden you do.”

 

T’Challa’s heart nearly breaks at her words. “Thank you, Wanda. I feel your mourning as well, though not as literally as you do. I am sorry about your parents and your country. I hope you will find peace with them soon.”

 

Wanda’s eyes soften into mush before him. “You as well,” she says.

 

T’Challa closes his eyes, the magnitude of the emotions before him too much to handle at once, but when he opens his eyes, Wanda is gone.

 

Alone, and truly feeling lonely, T’Challa turns back towards the burial ground before him, task reentering his mind, though Wanda still lingers.

 

“Father,” he calls out, “I seek your guidance. I seek the knowledge and strength of the Black Panther in this time of need. Please. Help me, father.”

 

In the silence of the forest, T’Challa waits.

 

 

**NEW YORK CITY, 6:00 PM**

Steve tries his best to settle himself, though it’s been awhile since he saw the bloody man on the bathroom floor, and still he’s shaken.

 

He went into his own bathroom to take a leak, and all of a sudden he heard a hard bass and was standing on marble flooring, a pool of blood spreading around a visibly dead man. 

 

Standing over him was the man from the car, the one with the metal arm. Steve still doesn't know his name, or if he's even real. For all he knows, it could all be a hallucination. The man with the metal arm and the dead man could both just be figments of his imagination.

 

It all seems so vivid, though. Which is the problem.

 

“Hello.”

 

Steve nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears it, but he looks over—and there he is—Metal Arm Man in all is glory, sitting in his favorite recliner, legs extended and arms stiff against the chair’s arms.

 

“Um…” Steve isn't sure how to talk to a hallucination. “Hi?”

 

The man’s eyes follow Steve calculatingly as he takes a seat on the couch across from the recliner, perched on the edge in attention. “Who are you?”

 

The man doesn't move, he just squints a little before looking away entirely, his eyes being the only thing that moves. “I’m not sure.”

 

_Great_ , Steve thinks, _so not only is he hallucinating a man. He’s also hallucinating a man with an identity crisis_.

 

“You said that out loud.”

 

“Oh shit,” is Steve’s brilliant response. A pause. Then. “Wait, how did you know I said it out loud?”

 

The man sniffs and seems to struggle with what to say next. “Come over here. Touch me.”

 

Steve balks. This isn't what he was expecting. “What?”

 

The man has the nerve to roll his eyes, as if his request was completely normal and wouldn't confuse Steve at all. “I am testing a theory. Come over here. Touch me.”

 

Steve, ever the situationally aware, does as he's told and shuffles over to where the man is sitting, reaching a hand out tentatively. The entire time, the man doesn't move an inch, just watches with his eyes, and Steve feels a little creeped out if he's being honest.

 

Nervously, his fingers graze the man’s arm, and when he comes in contact with relatively cold, but existing, flesh, he recoils so fast and—

 

—nearly knocks into a tray of medical supplies behind him.

 

Suddenly, Steve isn't in his shoebox apartment. He’s in a cold, sparsely lit room, large and menacing in its construction. As Steve looks around, he sees signs placed around the room, all written in another language. _Is it Russian? Am I in Russia right now?_

 

A man in a white lab coat walks past Steve, almost through him, and briskly makes his way to a sight that makes Steve blanch and cover his mouth.

 

The man from his hallucinations—as he's now tentatively calling them—is sitting similar to how he was in the recliner, legs extended, arms secured on the chair’s arms, instead now it’s a black chair, similar construction to what Steve sees at the dentist, with a large, ominous machine connected to it behind it. The man’s arms are chained down, as are his legs, and his head is bound to the chair by a thick, metal band that spans his sweaty forehead.

 

He’s shirtless, which isn't what Steve should be focusing on, but it is, and he sees the man’s defined abdomen and chest, heaving with unsteady breaths as the lab coat gets closer to him, a syringe in hand. He also sees the gnarled, broken scar tissue surrounding the man’s shoulder where flesh and metal is fused together, and nearly vomits once more.

 

Steve watches as the man is stuck with the large needle, looking on in sick fascination as a large dosage of brownish liquid goes into the man’s system, causing him to unclench almost everywhere, immediately relaxing into a docile state.

 

Heaving a sigh, Steve takes a step back from the scene—

 

—and finds himself sitting back on his couch in his apartment, the man still lying on his recliner.

 

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Steve demands, though from what he just witnessed, he has a feeling the man won’t be able to talk much.

 

The man seems doped up, and his eyes are rolling in the back of his head. “Remind me to tell you about what the hell is going on the next time I see you,” he slurs, his eyes completely closing.

 

With that, the man disappears from before Steve’s eyes, leaving him more than shaken.

 

“Okay,” he says out loud, a habit he doesn't see himself breaking anytime soon, “so I’m thinking these aren't hallucinations.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> until next time


	3. smart money is on the skinny bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back!

**MOSCOW, 5:00 AM**

When James comes to after the—what should be lethal—dose of the usual drug cocktail given to him after every mission, a man is standing above him, smile evil in nature. He’s wearing a crisp suit and looks American—the arrogant nature of his posture and pearly white teeth both indications.

 

“I hear I’m the last thing you asked for before you went under. Should I be flattered?” the man quirks an eyebrow, his lips climbing up, widening his smile.

 

James tries to remember back to before he was injected, and his memory finally serves him in his favor. Pierce, he asked for Pierce. The man standing before him is Pierce, apparently his handler, as Fury had put it in the club’s bathroom.

 

The drugs are made to reset James’ brain so to speak, but they don't do much in terms of memory altering. James has been able to hide that secret from the organization since he began missions.

 

Pierce speaks to him in English, so it’s assumed James should speak it back. Unfortunate that HYRDA didn't bother to teach him much more than vocabulary and basic sentence structure.

 

“Fury talk about clusters. You and he together. I am wanting to know why,” James states simply, voice deep and gruff and heavily accented.

 

Pierce’s expression turns sour quickly, which is what James expected. After all, Fury had also said that Pierce had orchestrated the murder of six other people just because they were in a ‘cluster’ with him. 

 

Whatever the hell that meant.

 

“Why are you so concerned about that? You should be concerned about this…” Pierce pulls out a device of some sort, and a hologram pops up, showing grainy surveillance footage of a street.

 

James watches as a red-haired woman, slight but muscular, runs head-on into a bulky man wearing a long cloak, a glowing device dropping on the ground. James tenses. He remembers that device from a previous mission.

 

“You remember when we sent you to Venice, hm? That device, the arc reactor, is a personal manufactured one from the young Stark himself. A prototype unlike any the world will ever see, since he refused to put it on the market. We sent you to get this device, and that dimwitted fuckhead just lost it for us,” Pierce heaves a long sigh, though James has a hard time figuring out if it’s authentic or not. “So we need you to go find this woman. She took the device when our idiot crony kept walking, and who knows what she's done with it in the time she's had it. We know who she is—Natasha Romanov—a former lab rat in the failed Black Widow experiment, currently a ballerina in the esteemed Moscow Ballet Company. She's playing the lead in Swan Lake this spring.”

 

Pierce’s mouth has curved back into the slimy smirk, and all he can do in response is nod.

 

“You have twenty hours to retrieve the device and do any damage control required in the meantime. Understood, _soldat_?”

 

Blank-faced but still curious, James nods. “Understood.”

 

 

**ICELAND, 2:00 AM**

Thor’s sleeping patterns are something to be marveled at since his exile from Asgard. He’s taken to sleeping in varying intervals during the day and wandering around at night, looking for the next place to dip into for the following day, where he crashes, eats and tries his best to stay warm in the ever-present darkness.

 

“Well this looks inviting, doesn't it?”

 

Spooked, Thor looks to his right, where the voice comes from, and finds a very small man walking next to him, marveling his surroundings. He's wearing a pair of satin pajamas, and Thor longs to reach out and feel the material, having worn nothing but thick wool for clothing, which scratches irritatingly against his skin.

 

“Where the hell did you come from?” Thor shouts in response, his loud timbre vibrating all throughout his body, and causing the man beside him to shudder.

 

“Easy big guy, okay? I just woke up from this really crazy nightmare that I’d rather not share with you. I can’t deal with an overly loud voice, either. Just chill with it, got it?”

 

Half of the words the man says go over Thor’s head, as he's not used to modern slang. Asgard is very strict in their teachings of languages, not that the man beside him is Asgardian, which begs the question—

 

“I’ll say it again. Where did you come from? This town is abandoned, fool. How did you appear next to me?”

 

The man beside him rubs his temples with his hands and sighs, closing his eyes briefly and running his hands down his face, stopping at his oddly connected facial hair. 

 

“I _did_ just appear beside you, bozo. I don't exactly know how, and I’m not really into finding out why you’re just wandering through an _abandoned_ town in the middle of the night, but who am I to judge? My first walkthrough in Venice was around three in the morning. Lemme tell ya, not exactly the beautiful town I saw so many photos of when I was growing up. With context, the place can be a dump.”

 

Thor remains confused as to why the small man is ranting so much, when something strikes him as even more odd. “Wait. You grew up? You have a childhood? You are not just a figment of my hunger, exhaustion and delusion?”

 

“Um, no? I’m Tony Stark, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, arguably the richest man in the world?” Thor just stares at the small man—Tony—with no change in his expression. “Have you…not heard of me?”

 

Thor shakes his head. “I am afraid not. I’m from Asgard, we don't get a lot of news on foreign nations, much less the businessman in those nations.”

 

It’s Tony’s turn to look bewildered. “You’re Asgardian? That isolationist country up where Iceland is? What is _going on_? Why am I hallucinating a random hobo from Asgard? What’s the point, brain! What’s the point!”

 

“Hold on,” Thor interjects, “you’re the hallucination. Not me. I am very real.”

 

Tony’s eyes widen and he does a once-over of Thor. Suddenly, understanding dawns in his eyes. “Ohhhh, you’re that prince that got kicked out for being too war-hungry, huh? Then…why the hell am I hallucinating a random _exiled prince_ from Asgard?”

 

“Again,” Thor huffs, “ _I_ am the real human. _You_ are the hallucination.”

 

“But I’m real too!” Tony yells. “I would know if I was a hallucination!”

 

Thor rolls his eyes. “Right. Where are we standing right now? On the street of an abandoned Icelandic village. Where I am currently located. I’ve been walking around for three hours now.”

 

Tony looks a little meek at this. “Well…I came here from my bedroom in my fancy Venice mansion…it was like I was just transported here out of nowhere. It didn't really make sense. But that doesn't mean I’m a hallucination, okay? It just means that I’m a really vivid daydreamer and that I probably shouldn't drink that weird tea Obie got for me ever again.”

 

The air around Thor shifts a little, and he is suddenly extremely warm, his heavy clothes hanging off of him uselessly as sweat started to slick up his back and arms. He’s standing in a bedroom, one with glass walls and a sleek but plush and comfortable-looking bed. 

 

“Wha…?” Thor trails off, confused.

 

“ _This_ is my bedroom. I was taken from here to your little village in the blink of an eye, no explanation,” Tony explains, padding over to an apparent liquor bar that he has on the opposite wall of the one with the bed pushes against it. “Do you have a preference? The least I could do is offer the guest in my brain a drink. Even if you can’t pick it up.”

 

Thor winces, thinking of his favorite alcoholic beverage from home, the famous Asgardian mead, exported only to Iceland and the only good Asgard trades with another nation. “If you have something similar to mead, I would like that.”

 

“Um…” Tony trails off, searching, “I have whiskey? It’s the strongest brand I’ve ever found and I only drink it when I’m _really_ depressed and, boy, do you look like you need it, pal.”

 

Holding out a glass filled halfway with the whiskey, Tony looks at Thor both expectantly and hesitantly. On one hand, Thor is confused as to how Tony was able to make a drink if he's a figment of Thor’s imagination, and on the other, he very much wants to try this obviously nonexistent whiskey. 

 

Thor walks over and takes the glass of whiskey, downing it in one sip and slamming the glass on the surface of the bar, moving over to sit on the bed, immediately relishing in its comfort. Such a bed is of similar quality to the ones he’d slept on in the palace. When Thor looks over at Tony again, he's staring in shock and horrid.

 

“You…you shouldn't have been able to grab that. I just held it out to entertain myself. A hallucination shouldn't have been able to do all that without me feeling the effects of the whiskey. I don't feel different at all.”

 

“Neither do I,” Thor remarks, “maybe it’s just bad whiskey.”

 

Tony scowls at Thor’s unhelpful comment. “I’m _serious_. We need to sort some things out here, buddy. We both think we’re telling the truth.”

 

“I am obviously the real person, you are obviously the fake,” Thor says, “I cannot stress this enough.”

 

“The fact that you wholeheartedly believe that is proving my point. What if we’re both real people? What if we’re not hallucinating somehow? We need to…” Tony trails off, muttering. He searches around a desk that’s pulled against an adjacent wall, rummaging for something. He stands up with a pad of paper and a pen in his hand, and he licks the pen’s tip before writing something down. Walking over to Thor, he rips the piece of paper off the pad and hands it to him. “The first chance you get, call this number.”

 

Thor accepts the paper. “I do not have a phone. Or access to a phone. Or an idea where a phone might be.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Tony throws the pad and pen somewhere in the room, and Thor watches them go, trying to focus on something other than the other man’s withering glare.

 

“ _Find a phone_ , dipshit. This is important. I need to test my theory and we need to see who’s really telling the truth.”

 

Cold wind rustles the paper in Thor’s hand, and suddenly he's back in Iceland in the abandoned village. The paper from Tony’s bedroom is still in his hand, but its getting damp. Thor quickly shoves it in his coat pocket, continuing his walk down the streets, adjusting the pack on his shoulder every couple of steps.

 

Another hour passes by, and bright headlights shine against Thor’s eyes, a sharp contrast to the pitch black darkness of the town. 

 

“Hello? Is someone out there?” Thor shouts, shielding his eyes with his arm.

 

He sees the silhouettes of two figures walking towards him, each blocking a headlight, before they stop in front of him. Thor slowly lowers his arm, blinking rapidly at the change. There are two women in front of him, one with darker hair and paler skin than the other, both with open expressions on their faces.

 

“Are you okay, sir? Do you need some help?” the slightly taller of the two girls asks in bad Icelandic, and her eyebrows furrow in frustration as she stumbles over her sentences.

 

Thor swallows the lump growing in his throat. “I need a phone.”

 

“We have one!” the other woman says excitedly, her pronunciation a little better. She looks at her partner with an unreadable expression, and the woman nods curtly.

 

They both look back at Thor. “We do. I’m Dr. Jane Foster,” one of the women says before gesturing to the woman next to her, “and this is my assistant, Darcy Lewis. We have a setup not too far from here if you want to come with us. What’s your name?”

 

The two—Jane and Darcy—wait expectantly for Thor to answer. He thinks for a moment on what he should say to introduce himself.

 

“I’m Thor,” he decides on.

 

Darcy quirks an eyebrow. “Just Thor?”

 

“Yes,” he responds easily, “just Thor.”

 

Jane’s face tentatively forms a smile. “Well, Just Thor,” she says, “follow us.”

 

Thor does, hoping this all ends as well as his hopes say it will.

 

 

**MOSCOW, 6:00 AM**

In hindsight, the amount of wiggle room James has on time is slightly ridiculous. He found Natasha Romanov’s apartment within half an hour, and the drive only took fifteen minutes. He’s been standing in the one-room apartment for fifteen minutes, just observing.

 

The space is crammed to the maximum, but nothing in the apartment has any sentimental value. Natasha clearly has no attachments, but requires a lot of things to live the life she does. There are boxes upon boxes, presumably filled with shoes. One check confirms James’ suspicion. She has twenty-two boxes filled with ballerina slipper and pointe shoes alone. There’s a small mattress lying on the floor, where Natasha currently sleeps, and James creeps around stealthily, searching for the arc reactor.

 

In theory, it shouldn't be that hard. The device glows fluorescent blue. It’s not very conspicuous. Any footage of Tony Stark post-escape from Afghanistan proves that.

 

James isn't looking to kill Natasha, but a couple minutes later, she's stirring, and not in the way of dreaming or nightmares, but in the way of waking up momentarily. James finds himself freezing, not entirely sure what to do for the first time in his life. 

 

He’s still just standing there when Natasha wakes, jolting from her peaceful position and staring wide-eyed at James, recognition and fear in her eyes.

 

James wonders if they’ve met before, in another life.

 

Pierce had said that Natasha was in the failed Black Widow program. That program was one that HYDRA had dipped its feet into, staking a claim in the event that the program was successful and the Russian government had nimble teenaged super-spies to employ throughout the globe. HYRDA had offered up the Winter Soldier—James—as an overseer to the training of the Black Widows when they reached the stage approaching active combat. He was also just a teenager at the time, but he was the only successful experiment in the Winter Solider Initiative, and he was a powerful asset.

 

James had never had the chance to do any overseeing, with the Black Widow program losing all of its funding mysteriously and being disbanded shortly afterwards, wiping the memories of the girls involved and sending them back out into the country. 

 

It was a miracle that Natasha had ended up in Moscow, starring in Swan Lake in a few short months, when James considered the torment and infinite destruction that was his life as the Winter Soldier.

 

“You’re—“ Natasha gulps, then all vulnerability is wiped from her face. “You’re the Winter Soldier.”

 

“Do you know me? Have you met me in person before?” James asks, careful not to sound too eager for answers.

 

Natasha shifts where she's sitting. “No, we never met,” her voice is strong now, “I heard that you were going to train us at the end, though.”

 

_That’s interesting._ “You remember the program?”

 

“The memory wipe didn’t work on me,” Natasha explains, “I still remember everything, not sure why. The nightmares that happened in the Red Room haunt me in my sleep almost every night. Sometimes I wish the memory wipes had worked on me, just so I wouldn't have to relive it all the time.”

 

“Understandable,” James digresses. “Where is the arc reactor?”

 

Natasha’s eyebrows furrow. “Arc reactor? I don’t…” she trails off temporarily, before understanding dawns on her face. “That thing the man dropped. I took it with me.”

 

“The arc reactor is property of HYDRA,” James ignores when Natasha flinches at the mention of the organization, “and we would like it back. Where is it?”

 

Unyielding, James takes a quick scan around the apartment before resettling on Natasha, cold eyes calculating. 

 

“I read a few years ago that the arc reactor was stolen straight out from under the noses of the big guys at Stark Industries,” Natasha drawls, daring to stand from the mattress. Her height is laughable compared to James’, but she doesn't back down. “Why is HYDRA so interested in it?”

 

James holds back a sneer. “That’s none of _your_ concern.”

 

Natasha makes the very quick walk across the apartment to one of the shoe boxes. She opens it and retrieves the arc reactor, holding it in one hand before tossing in the other, moving back and forth swiftly and carelessly, like it isn't millions of dollars worth of tech between her fingers. 

 

“This has been a pretty stressful day,” she states, “I gotta go somewhere.”

 

James arches an eyebrow. “Where?”

 

“That’s none of _your_ concern,” Natasha mocks. “You can have this back, though.” She holds out the arc reactor, and James’ silver hand closes around it quickly, pocketing the device in his deep pants pocket.

 

Natasha watches as James looks around the apartment once more. “How much time were you given to find me?”

 

“Twenty hours.”

 

“And you still have…?”

 

“Eighteen hours and forty-seven minutes,” James recites mechanically. Natasha gives a small chuckle.

 

“Do you want to come with me?”

 

James looks over at Natasha, confused. She quickly supplies an answer to his unspoken question. “HYDRA frequently underestimates you. They gave you too much time to find me, and now you’re itching to escape. I’m imagining you’re also beginning to feel the effects of withdrawal from the drugs they were always shooting us up with,” James’ silence confirms her suspicions. “So come with me. I promise you'll have a nice time,” she winks.

 

“Where are you going? Just tell me,” James demands.

 

Natasha smirks. “Underground scene. My knuckles are looking a little too clean. I wanna get my hands dirty.”

 

“Um…”

 

“It’s a fight club. I go there to fight every now and then. Some people make bets. Smart money’s on the skinny bitch, I hear,” Natasha says, smirking a little when she brings up betting. She’s obviously the skinny bitch she refers to.

 

In the end, it’s only a moment of consideration before James nearly blurts his decision. “I’m coming with you.”

 

“Perfect,” Natasha says, moving to grab a duffel bag in the corner. “Follow me.”

 

The entire way down the stairs, and the twenty minute walk to the tunnels, James doesn't think of HYDRA at all.

 

 

**NEW YORK CITY, 11:00 PM**

Steve has been trying his best to settle down, but it’s honestly hard, especially when the man ‘left’ with such a cryptic last line.

 

_“Remind me to tell you about what the hell is going on the next time I see you.”_

 

Next time he sees Steve? What did that even mean? Could the man control when he came and went, visiting Steve or taking Steve to where he was located, which was apparently directly out of a 1950’s novel set in a mental institution. The place was scary, and Steve doesn't think he’s being irrational in his fear for the man’s safety, even though he doesn't even know the man’s name.

 

Steve’s been trying to fall asleep for an hour, but to no avail, and is about to give up when he plops down on his recliner and finds himself landing on solid ground instead.

 

Sniffing, Steve can tell this place is lit with oddly chosen candles, the colorful sashes hanging from all over the large room giving the space a colorful, cheery setting, juxtaposing the fear coursing through Steve’s entire body.

 

A man sits on a mat a few feet away from Steve, cross-legged with his eyes closed. He's wearing what appear to be traditional robes, but what does Steve know about the fashion of wherever the hell he's been taken to now?

 

“Um, hi,” Steve says awkwardly, but the man doesn't stir. He simply turns his head to look at Steve directly. “I’m Steve.”

 

“Bruce,” the man says, “you look like you need to relax.”

 

Steve lets himself chuckle. “You could say that.”

 

“Go sit on that mat over there,” Bruce says, indicating to the mat a few more feet away from Steve. Steve crawls weirdly across the floor until he reaches it, sitting like Bruce is and waiting.

 

“Focus on your breathing. Try not to let the outside stuff get in your head. The world and all of its shitty problems can wait a few goddamn minutes, got it?”

 

Steve thinks he sounds a bit rough for a meditator, but who is he to judge. He's a gentle giant who puts on a bullet-proof vest and a straps a handgun into his belt everyday for work.

 

“Got it,” Steve affirms, setting out to become as zen as Bruce.

 

It’s another twenty minutes before either speaks.

 

“I don’t know why you’re here, nor do I care,” Bruce starts, “and my brain has been doing a lot of crazy shit lately. So I’m gonna go and get some well-deserved rest, and you can stay here and meditate for as long as you want. I don't mind at all. Believe me, I know what stress can do to a person.”

 

Steve nods, already getting lost in the calm air around him, and he doesn't even hear Bruce walk away.

 

This is probably because, as soon as Steve breathes in again, he smells the pot of coffee he decided to brew while waiting for the man to come back. When he cracks his eyes open, Steve is back in his apartment, no Bruce or colorful scarves in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey uh if anyone's interested i also just posted a marvel/lost au, where i have marvel characters as passengers of flight oceanic 815. no lost characters involved, like this fic doesn't have any sense8 characters. just the marvel characters living in the lost world. check it out if ur interested!!!


	4. what's going on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back pls dont hate me

PART FOUR - WHAT'S GOING ON?

 

 

 

**CHICAGO, 9:00 AM**

Pietro holds the door open for Wanda, a rusty bell dinging at the top of the hinge to alert the storeowner that someone has arrived. Wanda took her morning shift off—the shift where she makes the most in tips—to visit this bookstore, so she crosses her fingers and prays the answers she needs are here.

 

She and her twin are lost as they wander aimlessly down the cluttered aisles, looking for something that could help them solve the problem that is her brain at the moment. Wanda swore to Pietro that she saw Vision again earlier that morning when they got on the subway, so Pietro decided they needed to take some action and figure things out.

 

“I’m not really sure what we’re supposed to be looking for,” Wanda admits through the corner of her mouth, speaking to Pietro in their native tongue.

 

Having personal conversations with her twin are Wanda’s favorites simply because it meant she can speak Sokovian unabashedly and without fear of the outside world’s reaction. While Sokovian is very similar to Serbian in syntax and vocabulary, but there is a certain fluid accent required to speak Sokovian, one that Americans have heard on the news many times since the unrest in Sokovia began.

 

Fleeing their home country, while being the smartest decision Wanda and Pietro have ever made, was also one of the hardest. Wanda, in particular, didn't want to leave the place where their parents perished, but Pietro reminded her that, with the unrest brewing in Sokovia coupled with their developing enhancements, the two would have been the largest targets out of all the Sokovian citizens.

 

So Wanda manipulated every airport employee they encountered on their journey to America, and the next thing she knew, they were both on board a plane to Chicago, Illinois, no return.

 

“Wanda!” Pietro calls from a few aisles over, and Wanda realizes she got stuck in her own head. “I think I’ve found something.”

 

She quickly locates her twin standing in front of a section labeled ‘Psychological Anomalies’. Giving Pietro a knowing look, she took a glance at the book he was holding in his hands.

 

_The Guide to Understanding Visions: A Psychic’s Handbook_

 

“Seriously?!” Wanda whispers harshly, sending angered energy at Pietro so he knows she’s genuinely irritated.

 

Pietro holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Hear me out. These odd dreams you're having could just be new manifestations of your abilities! For all we know, something similar will happen to me within a few days.”

 

“Excuse me. Is there something I can help you with?”

 

Wanda and Pietro jump in near unison, and they turn around to see an elderly woman who's clearly an employee, as Wanda deduces from the tag on her stained yellow shirt reading Janet.

 

“No ma’am. We’re doing fine, thank you,” Pietro says, his English perfect. Between the two, Pietro is the one they decided would do all of the public speaking, due to his quick grasp of English syntax and grammar. He was also better equipped to hide his accent, Wanda always letting her Sokovian pride shine through in her speaking voice.

 

Janet glances between Wanda and Pietro, clearly not believing they’re not needing help, and apparently decides to inject herself into the situation anyways.

 

“So what’re we reading about? Psychics? Are you becoming one, dear?” Janet asks innocently, looking at Wanda as she speaks.

 

Pietro jumps in. “We’re just browsing, ma’am. There really is no need—“

 

“I asked the young lady a question, sweetheart. Not you,” is Janet’s quip back at him, making him stop in his explanation and put on a look so perplexed that Wanda has to hold back a giggle.

 

Janet turns back to face Wanda, her face the picture of the same old lady sweetness as before. “So? Are you thinking of becoming a psychic?”

 

“To tell the truth,” Wanda stutters, “I am wanting to find more information about something else.”

 

“Oh,” Janet drags the vowel out for awhile, turning back to Pietro, who nods quickly. “What’s your name, honey?”

 

Wanda is thankful that she's still looking at her twin. “Pietro, ma’am,” he says smoothly, holding a hand out, “this is my twin sister, Wanda.”

 

Janet shakes Pietro’s hand, then turns around and does the same with Wanda.

 

“I have a feeling we’ll be here awhile,” Janet announces, already shuffling away from them, “now follow me! I’m sure I can help you find what you're _really_ looking for.”

 

As Wanda makes to follow Janet, she hears Pietro mutter “I doubt it” in Sokovian, and her heart begins to race.

 

Truly, Wanda doesn't think Janet will have all of the answers either, but it never hurts to try. At this point, Wanda’s willing to do anything to try and find some answers. She’s had a nightmare, seen the man from her nightmare all around her city, and been transported to a distant nation in Africa without taking a single step. Wanda will take any solution to her problem now. 

 

Because deep down, there’s a part of her that worries it _is_ her powers, and that, if it is, she’s too far gone to ever be saved.

 

.

 

**ICELAND, 1:00 PM**

Thor spends seven of the eleven hours he’s spent at Jane and Darcy’s setup sleeping, and when he wakes, he finds Darcy has fixed him something she calls ‘pancakes’.

 

“They’re amazing and delicious, and I hate that you’ve never tried them before,” she explains when she stacks six on his plate after he asks what she's making. So far, Thor has relatively enjoyed Darcy’s company, since Jane is off doing ‘something’ as Darcy called it.

 

The next four hours after that is spent with Thor sitting at the computer Darcy directs him to researching Tony Stark. By the time Jane returns from wherever she went, Thor is sure he's read every piece of information the Internet has to provide on Tony Stark. He knows more about the man then it seemed he knew about himself. Thor quickly shakes that thought out of his head, since he also knows how strange the encounter was between the two of them.

 

“You asked about using a phone?” Darcy asks, holding out what Thor is led to believe is a phone. The lack of technology like this in Asgard is throwing Thor for a loop.

 

“Erm…yes. Do you mind…showing me how to make a call?” Darcy grins but doesn't say anything, instead just shows Thor which buttons to press, but letting him do all the work, only taking him through it. A thought strikes him as he's typing in the number on the crumbled up paper. “Can this make calls to other countries? Like Italy?”

 

Jane, who had been failing to pretend like she wasn't listening in, turns around to face them. “What’s in Italy?” she asks nonchalantly, curiosity in her eyes.

 

Thor decides the best way to go about this is to simply tell the truth. “Tony Stark.”

 

Darcy’s eyes bulge out of her head. “Of Stark Industries?! _That_ Tony Stark?” When Thor nods, he worries Darcy might faint. He looks over at Jane to see her staring suspiciously at him. Thor gulps and looks back down at the phone, almost missing Darcy’s garbled, “yes, it can make international calls.”

 

Thor quickly hits the green button as Darcy instructed, holding the phone to his ear and waiting impatiently as the dial tone rings. It takes a couple before he hears a _click_ and an exhausted “hello?” coming from the device.

 

“Yes, hello! It is Thor from earlier!” Thor bellows into the speaker that Darcy showed him, noticing Jane wincing at the volume of his voice.

 

Thor hears a curse from the other side. “Aw damnit, I thought I dreamt the whole thing. I’ve been waiting eleven hours for you to call while simultaneously hoping it was just my alcohol-soaked brain trying to compensate for my perpetual loneliness…”

 

“Does this prove the theory you had?” Thor asks curiously, ignoring the odd stares from Jane and Darcy. He stands and begins to pace.

 

Tony sighs. “Unfortunately, yes. Watch wherever room you're in for a second.”

 

Thor nods, even though Darcy told him no one would be able to see him do it, then waits. Suddenly he hears a whistle from both the phone and the room, and looks over to see Tony standing on the other side of the room, holding a phone that looks much fancier than the one Darcy gave Thor to his ear and frowning.

 

“Wait, how are you here _and_ in here?” Thor asks, and when he glances at Jane again, she's pale, watching the encounter with newfound horror.

 

Tony looks around the room, eyes widening when he notices Jane and Darcy. “Okay, I need to tell you something real quick. I don't think your female companions can see me, so dial it down on the looking like you're talking to a literal wall, would ya?”

 

“What do you mean they can’t see you? You're right here,” Thor waves his arm in Tony’s general direction, looking at Darcy for confirmation. She just looks uncomfortable.

 

Tony takes the phone away from his ear for a moment and looks at the ceiling. “That’s exactly what I was talking about you giant oaf!” he snaps, face turning a little red. 

 

Thor hides the blush threatening to take over his face. Princes do not blush. “So what does this mean, friend Stark?”

 

“It means, Point Break,” Tony sighs, and Thor wonders what the hell a Point Break means, “that you and I are both real life people, _and_ we’re also hallucinating each other.”

 

Suddenly speechless, Thor blanches a little before catching his tongue again. “Um…say again, Stark?”

 

Tony grumbles. “It seems like there’s something really strange going on here. I’m gonna try and do some more research on this. Don’t do anything dumb until I do. Look, Thor, this is all I’ll say. I think you and me are on some different wavelengths, brother. So you gotta keep it cool, ‘kay?”

 

“Of course, friend Stark,” Thor says boldly, “I will do as you said!”

 

“Uh-huh,” Tony scoffs, “catch ya later, Point Break.”

 

There’s another click, and then a long dial tone. Jane and Darcy are now standing together, heads close and conversing amongst each other, and while Thor doesn't want to interrupt them, he wants to give Darcy her phone back, so he clears his throat loudly, hoping to draw attention to himself. Both women glance back at him before realizing he’s off the phone, and Thor holds it out for Darcy to take. Once she does, Thor stands in front of them with a wide smile on his face.

 

“Thor,” Jane says before he can think to say anything, “can I ask you a potentially strange question?”

 

Without missing a beat, Thor replies, “of course! You’ve allowed me into the cottage you've taken residence in! I’ve never been in a better mood because of this! I owe you anything you wish, so ask away.”

 

Jane swallows and looks at Darcy, who nods vigorously. “Um,” she starts, “when you were on the phone with Stark, just now, did you also _see_ him in the room.”

 

Thor remembers when Tony told him that Darcy and Jane probably couldn't see him standing there, so he was hesitant to say something at first, but the expectant look on Jane’s face made him cave very quickly. She seems desperate, and part of Thor, truthfully, is hoping she will have answers as to why this is happening to him. This being hallucinating a billionaire from another country.

 

“Yes,” he admits, noticing how Jane’s shoulders sag, “I saw him last night too. Before you two found me. He came to me on the road and then took me to his apartment in Italy. It was all very strange. I’ve never experienced anything like it, not even after a night of some strong, Asgardian mead.”

 

“Thor,” Darcy cuts in, “you were speaking perfect Italian on the phone with him. Did you know that?”

 

_What?_ “Italian? Really? I have never even heard the language spoken,” Thor replies, his thoughts thick with curiosity. “I can only speak the native Asgardian tongue and English.”

 

Darcy nods. “Tony Stark moved to Venice to become closer to his mother’s culture and heritage. At least that’s what he told the press when they made a shitstorm out of him moving the entire company across the ocean. He’s known how to speak Italian since he was a baby because of his mother, this is a well-known fact. It’s also well-known that, when she died, he took up the language again and made himself fluent in an attempt to get closer to her. These days, he barely speaks in anything but Italian. A few months ago he did an interview in English, and I almost lost my shit because it meant I didn't have to have closed captioning on anymore.”

 

“Thor,” Jane interjects, looking too serious for Thor’s liking, “have you had any weird nightmares? Like, woman or man in pain, looking like they’re going through something? A physical trauma? Anything like that?”

 

With a shudder, Thor relives watching the man with the immaculate sweater twitch on the old mattress before injecting himself with something and falling asleep. “Yes, I have. It was a man, he administered himself drugs afterwards.”

 

Jane and Darcy share another look. Thor’s suspicion and curiosity grow.

 

“What is it you know?” Thor accuses, voice suddenly sharp. “Is there a reason you found me? Have you been looking for me? What do you know about what’s going on in my head? I know you know something, you’re acting too weird for me to not know.”

 

“You’re right,” Jane says soothingly, “we do think we know what’s going on with you. I’ve been studying it for years.”

 

Thor heaves in a large breath. “I suggest you start talking, Dr. Foster.”

 

Jane sighs, then takes a couple steps back to sit on a stool sitting behind her. Once she’s up, she begins. “I had a mentor a few years ago, back when I was getting my PhD. He was one of my professors, and he ended up taking me on as an intern, where I was able to closely follow the work he was doing. It was fascinating, but it was a front for the real work he was doing, the work he was hiding from the general public because he didn't want someone named Alexander Pierce to find out what he was doing.

 

“He decided to show me because he felt that he could trust me. Me and Darcy, who had been my assistant for around a year at that time. He showed us his true life’s work, which was uncovering every piece of genetic evidence he could that a separate species of human existed. He called it _homo sensorium_ , and he described it as a mental and spiritual link between eight people, from anywhere around the globe, who could fluidly visit and morph into one another, learning the knowledge and each others’ heads, living each others’ experiences, and the like. When Dr. Selvig was first reborn into sensorium, he thought he was hallucinating. It started with several days of painful migraines, and then the experiences started. I only know of two of the men he was linked with, Nick Fury and Alexander Pierce, because at the time, they were the only there left alive of their cluster.

 

“When Dr. Selvig died, it seemed like he had anticipated his death. He was murdered in cold blood on the floor of his lab, throat slit. Since Darcy and I knew of the work he was doing, whoever killed him left the body for her and I to find, taking all of the paper evidence that we had collected of the differences between homo sapiens and homo sensoriums. Luckily, we had downloaded a lot of it on a computer that sits over there, so we didn't lose too much research, but there was a vital piece of the puzzle that’s been missing for the longest time. A sensorium to test this stuff out on.

 

“Based on what I just witnessed, I would confidently guess that you, Thor, are homo sensorium, and that you've recently been reborn into a cluster of your own. You described a nightmare, you're seeing Tony Stark everywhere he isn't supposed to be, and you're speaking languages you're not supposed to know. Basically, everything that’s happened to you perfectly aligns itself with research Dr. Selvig and I were doing.”

 

When Jane finishes Thor doesn't know what to say. Luckily, Darcy does.

 

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but Jane and I think you might be the connection we need to finally complete our research and take down Alexander Pierce.”

 

Thor finally speaks up. “I thought Jane said Alexander Pierce was in Dr. Selvig’s cluster and was one of the only ones that remained alive. Why would you want to take down the last living connection you have to Selvig?”

 

Jane’s eyes turn sad before Thor’s own. “Pierce was the weak link in their cluster. He joined an existing terrorist organization called HYDRA, previously operating under governments like Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union, now more of an independent organization whose main trades are arms and pharmaceuticals. Since he joined, the mission of HYDRA has changed to something that had to be hidden from the general public, but one that couldn't be hidden from those in Pierce’s cluster. HYDRA’s new mission is to commit a mass genocide of all sensorium, and they’re doing a pretty good job of it. Under Pierce’s leadership, HYDRA has decimated over thirty-seven clusters and an additional seventy-four sensorium. Dr. Selvig was murdered under Pierce’s orders.”

 

Thor takes a couple deep breaths in, letting them out slowly before repeating the process.

 

“Is there anything else I should know about this Pierce guy?”

 

Jane and Darcy do the look thing again. 

 

“Look,” Darcy says, “for about two years, Pierce couldn't track Nick Fury down. He was the only one left of their cluster, and yesterday we caught wind that, while on a business trip in Russia, he was reported missing, with no traces as to where he could be. We believe he’s been killed as well, meaning Pierce is the only one left.”

 

“And now that he's taken down his entire cluster, he's going to start searching for more,” Jane adds, “so Thor, you’re in a lot of danger.”

 

.

 

**NEPAL, 6:45 PM**

Bruce has long since given up on doing any relaxation since his freaky dream of Vision on the mattress. At least his headache has gone away in the time spent trying to regain his bearings.

 

Meanwhile, his research is going basically nowhere, and Bruce feels like he might just explode at any moment. Nuclear physics is not something one should dabble with if one has a temper as short-fused as Bruce.

 

So when Tony Fucking Stark just randomly shows up in the middle of his laboratory, Bruce has just about given up on a single shred of self-preservation or relaxation. The stories about Tony Fucking Stark speak for themselves.

 

“So…I have no idea where I am. Wanna help me out a little bit?” Tony asks in such a nonchalant tone that Bruce wishes he has the capacity to throw something heavy at him, because something tells Bruce that Tony isn't just a misty projection of his brain. Something tells Bruce that Tony is actually _here_.

 

“You’re in Nepal,” Bruce answers dully, “the mountains can be seen if you go up the stairs. This is just my lab that I keep down here so tourists don't accidentally stumble upon nuclear elements.”

 

Tony’s eyes light up. “Nuclear?” his voice sounds like that of a six year old on Christmas. “Watcha working on?”

 

“Something that I’m, legally, not allowed to work on. The federal government banned it on all counts, so I moved my ass here to keep doing my research. I have too much stake in this work to just let it go that fast.”

 

He hears an impatient huff and stifles a laugh. “Yeah, okay but…” Tony temporarily trails off, likely to build suspense, “what are you working on?”

 

Bruce sighs and steps away from the lab table, resigning himself to not getting any work done anytime soon. “I’m trying to find a way to produce nuclear energy without the longstanding effects afterwards. For space transportation, not that _that’s_ an issue scientists have been focusing on lately—NASA certainly hasn't been making any strides—but my work back in the States just…wasn’t working for me, so I needed a change of scenery and a change of pace.”

 

“And nuclear energy is your version of a change of pace?” Tony asks, bewildered.

 

At that, Bruce can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, but nuclear energy’s always been my thing. I have to stick to my roots in some ways.” 

 

“You’re looking to make clean nuclear energy? With no meltdowns or reactions of elements that have half-lives spanning 30 million years?” Tony asks eagerly, and at Bruce’s reluctant nod, he nearly squeals with glee. “Dude…I so wish I had met you before that Thor guy.”

 

Bruce’s nose scrunches up at the name. “That Thor guy?”

 

“Yeah, dude was whack. His voice is loud as hell too, don’t ever have a conversation with him if you can avoid it. He has long, really greasy blonde hair and is just really large in general. Seems like he would be scary but is actually a puppy that made me almost deaf when I spoke to him on the phone.”

 

Lost, Bruce just nods. “Some NYPD cop was here meditating with me yesterday. I somehow feel like that’s something you can relate to as well.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Bruce recalls when the high-strung man had randomly appeared next to him. He had refused to let himself think much of it, especially since he was in the middle of trying to meditate. “He was still wearing his uniform, even though I checked the time zones and it was, like, eleven at night or something like that. He came in all worried about something and I forced him to meditate to calm himself down. After a few minutes he was gone, so I guess it worked.”

 

Tony looks thoughtful. “Damn. There’s more of us than I thought. This throws me off a little bit.”

 

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to be thoughtful. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, I thought maybe it was just Thor and I, and I had really horrible luck by being stuck brain-siphoned to an Asgardian oaf with absolutely no ability to interpret social cues. Then I meet you, and then I find out you met someone else. What if that someone else met a someone else, who met a someone else, who met a someone else? What if there are more of us connected in this weird way than I thought? What the hell would we do then?”

 

Bruce hums. “I’m not sure there’s anything we _can_ do. This thing kinda just exists. We all have to deal with it, I suppose.”

 

Tony clicks his tongue. “That ain’t my nature, man. I’m gonna get to the bottom of this, and when I do, I’m gonna try like hell to make sure you’re the first person that finds out everything I find out.”

 

“Okay,” is all Bruce says before Tony starts for the stairs up to the mountains. “I’m Bruce Banner by the way.”

 

Tony chuckles. “Yeah, the crazy guy who thinks space transportation should be anywhere near on the spectrum of everyone’s minds in a time of death, destruction and imminent erasure of all human life as we know it, I’ve heard of you before, buddy. I’m Tony Stark, but I’m pretty sure you already knew that.”

 

With that, Tony heads up the stairs and Bruce wonders what the hell his mind has gotten him into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regular updates from now on i promise :)))


	5. art is like religion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we back

PART FIVE - ART IS LIKE RELIGION

 

 

 

**CHICAGO, 9:15 AM**

Janet pulls up a stool and plops onto it, Wanda and Pietro moving to stand on the other side of the counter she leans on. “Okay,” she claps her hands once, causing Wanda to blink in reflex, before she clasps her hands in front of her. “What exactly has been going on, dear?”

 

“Well,” Wanda starts, “I had a nightmare. There was a man lying on a mattress. He looked like he was having a seizure. I was standing there watching but I couldn't do anything to help him. He told me to pay attention then drugged himself to sleep. I had a migraine for a day after that, and then I found myself transported to Wakanda in the middle of breakfast with Pietro. One second I was at our tiny kitchen island, the next I was standing in the forest above a praying man. I don’t really know what’s happening to me.”

 

Janet squints, suspicion and understanding clouding her vision. “What a curious thing,” she says quietly, “that I meet you after all these years. My husband, Hank Pym, maybe you’ve heard of him, maybe not, died many years ago. He was murdered. A week before he died, he sent a package to our house, seemingly out of nowhere. It looked like a manuscript, but when I read it, it was a research paper on this strange subject.”

 

Wanda and Pietro exchange glances before looking back at Janet. Wanda can’t help but be curious as to what Janet has to say.

 

“I have no use for the paper, I know everything I wish to know of my late husband,” Janet continues. “My husband was a strange man who, judging by the paper, led a very strange life. What he shared with me and what he kept from me are my own personal business. However, I’m hearing a lot of similarities between what you’re describing and what my husband described in his research. Would you like it?”

 

Wanda didn't hesitate. “Yes! If you are not minding. I am wanting to pay if you are wanting. Anything to help me, I would love.”

 

Janet smiles warmly. “That’s not necessary, dear. You can have it for free.”

 

She digs around under the counter for awhile before sitting back up, wincing as a few joints pop. In her hands are a thick stack of papers, all bound together by a seam on one side. She holds out the stack, the same smile on her face still.

 

“Here it is,” Janet says sweetly. Wanda takes the stacks from her. She reads the title of the research paper as she does so. _Homo Sensorium vs. a Homo Sapien, by Dr. Erik Selvig and Dr. Jane Foster, asst. Dr. Hank Pym and Darcy Lewis_

 

“I thank you so much, Janet. I am not having words for how grateful I am. Thank you.”

 

Janet simply smiles again and waves them off. “I hope you find out something about yourself from this paper. You seem like a kind woman. I’m glad this paper is in your hands now, rather than the hands of someone with less…well-intentioned motivations.”

 

When Wanda and Pietro get home, she immediately takes to the couch, where she dives into the paper, and everything she was thinking concerning theories on what’s happening to her brain is promptly flipped on its head.

 

.

 

**WAKANDA, 7:15 PM**

The worst possible time for Wanda to visit T’Challa again is as he’s leaving a meeting with his trusted aides, in which three of them attempt to convince him to open up negotiations for exporting vibranium.

 

As if Wakanda wasn’t rich enough already.

 

When Wanda appears, she’s walking beside T’Challa and looking expectantly, clearly waiting for him to speak first, he realizes. He waits until he is safely tucked away in his own bedchambers before he addresses Wanda, not wanting to draw attention to himself. A King who talks to himself is not meant to be a good King.

 

“I’ve been waiting for you to come back, Wanda,” he says simply, watching her as she goes to stand at the large window overlooking his view of the city. He watches her expression change as she witnesses the advanced Wakandan technology being put to use before her very eyes.

 

She speaks softly. “I was under the impression that Wakanda was very poor, like Sokovia.”

 

T’Challa walks over to where Wanda is standing, enjoying the view as well.

 

“It’s what we let the rest of the world think, but in truth, Wakanda is probably the richest country in the world, not the poorest. Vibranium will do that for a nation holding the most extensive mine of it in the entire world.”

 

Wanda looks at him curiously. “So why hide it?”

 

This, T’Challa anticipates, and he sighs before answering. “Because, once the world knows what kind of fortune Wakanda has, they will begin to ask for some, in the form of aid and whatnot, and it will be very hard to refuse. Wakanda is isolated for a reason. If we open our borders to just anyone, we suddenly become vulnerable to the war and ruin that spreads across the globe, and I will not stand idly by and watch as Wakanda deteriorates with the rest of the globe’s powerhouses. Besides,” T’Challa has a glint in his eyes, “the less colonizers around, the better.”

 

“Colonizers…?” Realization strikes. “Oh!” she giggles then, and the sight warms T’Challa, like when he hears Shuri laugh at a stupid meme she found on the Internet.

 

Wanda then turns to face T’Challa fully. “There’s a reason I’m here.”

 

“Yes…?” T’Challa prompts her, waiting.

 

“I visited a bookstore with my twin, Pietro. We were looking for information as to what might be going on with us. I know you’re a real person, I looked you up after I visited you, and you might not believe that I’m real, but trust me, I am. Yet, we both see each other. Why is that? I was given a research paper, and it only took me two hours to read it in full and actually understand what it said.

 

“There were men named Dr. Erik Selvig and Dr. Hank Pym who was doing research on anomalies such as ours. They even describe an experience similar to ours, a nightmare, a migraine, and then this connection, even shared that connection with each other and six others, apparently. They call the connection they had a cluster. Can you believe it? There are six more people out there with the same connections to us that we don't even know about yet! And they even classified us as a different species of man, homo sensorium, they called it. They gets really detailed into genetic makeups, but that part was confusing to me, so I skipped it, but—“

 

“Wanda,” T’Challa interrupts, dread already clouding his thoughts. He can’t think of a way this conversation will end up good for either of them. “It’s not that I am not happy you have found your answer. Believe me, I am happy, but that answer does not sit well with me. I do not think that’s the answer I am looking for, but I appreciate your effort in trying to solve this for both of us.”

 

She looks hurt, and T’Challa feels a prick of it in his heart, but he ignores it. “But this is—“

 

“—all science, Wanda. I believe in science. If I didn’t, Wakanda would not be as advanced as it is, but my answer lies deeper than science. My answer is with my father and the spirit of the Black Panther as well. I am sorry, I do not accept your research paper as the only answer. There is a deeper meaning beyond this, something the original Black Panther is trying to get me to understand.”

 

Wanda makes one last try, eyes clouding with tears. “T’Challa, I was only trying to—“

 

“I know what you were trying to do, and again, I thank you, but I am not going to stop searching for answers. Please, Wanda, leave me be until I find them.”

 

He turns away from the window after that, not being able to bear looking at Wanda’s hurt expression for much longer. Though she looks and feels the same age as T’Challa, he can see how much of her youthful spirit is still left in her. Wanda reminds him so much of Shuri that it hurts.

 

In a moment of weakness, he turns back to check if she’s still there, and can’t help but feel disappointed when she isn’t.

 

.

 

**VENICE, 6:15 PM**

Tony thinks it’s accurate to describe his day as odd. He thinks its pretty fair. After all, he’s met two people in different parts of the world, both of them connected to him by the mind.

 

So of course from there it’s only natural that it gets even more odd.

 

Finding himself basking in Wakandan sun is exactly what Tony would describe as a vacation on normal grounds, but this is just getting ridiculous. He’s been to Iceland, Nepal, and now Wakanda?

 

Who knew being mind-melded with a bunch of strangers would actually have benefits?

 

Tony looks around the bedchamber—because the giant ass space he’s occupying right now is _not_ small enough to be a bedroom—trying to find whomever it is in Wakanda that he’s connected with.

 

His jaw drops when he spots King T’Challa.

 

“Holy shit, I’m sharing a brain with royalty too?! I mean, technically Thor was royalty but he got the boot. Damn, I have a king in my brain. Nothing gets better than this.”

 

T’Challa looks over at Tony, and the only thing he can say about the look on his face is that is is _disdain_.

 

“Great,” T’Challa huffs, “first the girl, now you? Can I not have some peace and quiet?”

 

“I’ve had a busy day too, buddy. You don’t know the half of it.”

 

T’Challa glowers. “Try running a country whilst solving the mystery of all of this madness, then get back to me. I cannot for the life of me find one second of my time to spend alone, with no one’s thoughts swimming around in my head to accompany me.”

 

_Touché, T’Challa,_ Tony thinks, _ah, I love alliteration._

 

Before Tony’s one-track brain can repeat the phrase ‘Touché T’Challa’ over and over until his head explodes, Tony quickly changes the subject for himself. “I basically run, like, half the world already, so I kinda know what you’re talking about. Except I do more than just sit and stare out windows with a frown bringing me down. I’m actually doing stuff to solve this mess.”

 

T’Challa then takes the time to finally give Tony a full glance, and Tony knows the exact moment T’Challa realizes he’s talking to Tony Stark. There isn't much ofa difference, but it’s one that’s always there.

 

“Like what? What have you done? Other than secure the rights to Venice’s electricity grid. What exactly are your plans for that, by the way?”

 

Tony sniffs. “That’s none of your business. Never will be, don't get hung up on the details. And I’ve…talked to people. About the issue, I mean. I’ve done more than staring, is what I’m saying.”

 

“I have too,” T’Challa protests, “I’ve prayed to the spirits of my ancestors and the Black Panther, but I have not received an answer yet. Perhaps the answer is actually right in front of me, and I’ve just not been paying attention to the signs closely enough—“

 

“—I gotta be honest. I stopped listening after ‘prayed’,” Tony interjects crassly.

 

T’Challa pauses for a moment. Then, “that was the fifth word I said.”

 

Arching an eyebrow, Tony asks, “did you just spend that time counting out how many words you said before ‘prayed’?”

 

Another pause.

 

“Be honest, Your Highness.”

 

“…That is none of your business, Tony Stark.”

 

Tony cackles—full-on cackles, like he’s never done before—leaning back from where he's standing before leaning down and placing his hands on his knees, his entire body shaking.

 

“I do not see where the humor is, Mr. Stark,” T’Challa complains.

 

Making a little sobbing sound, Tony quickly recovers. “Yeah, I didn't either, if I’m being honest. It’s just Tony by the way.”

 

“Then I am T’Challa,” is the response he gets. Tony grins regardless. “Gotcha.”

 

The two share a brief glance, before T’Challa turns back towards the window, still looking troubled.

 

Normally, Tony wouldn't bother to insert himself in the conflict, not one for any particular source of comforting that may end up backfiring on his part. In general, Tony stayed away from social constructs like these, where he allowed one person to get upset, therein implying that he’s supposed to personally nurse that person back to their proper emotional health.

 

Since Afghanistan, though, Tony’s found himself being a lot more accommodating towards people like that. Just as a natural behavioral shift.

 

Regardless, Tony isn't sure what he's supposed to do with an unreadable, literal king. He’s worlds away from Tony in terms of social hierarchy, even _with_ all the money Tony has to hand out to those who don't immediately accept him.

 

“…Well,” Tony starts awkwardly, looking around once more, before deciding to go stand by T’Challa, overlooking the beautiful view, “this is a nice view.”

 

T’Challa chuckles beside him. “Thank you. Wakanda is a truly beautiful nation.”

 

Tony hums. “I always suspected you guys were hiding some dirty secret. I just didn't expect it to be that you guys are secretly rich,” he pauses for a moment, “to each his own, I guess. All of this beauty…I’m not surprised you guys wanna keep it to yourself for as long as possible. The world will ruin it when it gets its hands on it.” He glances over at T’Challa briefly before turning back to the scene. “But you know that already, obviously.

 

He receives an odd stare in response to his statement, but Tony ignores it. Pretending he hasn't just made a situation weird or uncomfortable is his speciality these days.

 

“Look, I don’t actually know what the hell is going on here. At first, I thought I was going insane, and then I thought that it was just karma, but this might actually be something. If it is, I’m gonna need everyone that’s stuck in my head with me to cooperate while we figure out what to do next with this shit. Is that cool with you? Because if you don't wanna RSVP, then I just won’t invite you to the party at all, you know what I mean?”

 

T’Challa stares again, though this time Tony admits he kinda deserves it. He was ranting a little and the metaphor got away from him.

 

“I am not _not_ RSVPing, I just do not know what kind of party it is. I need to wait and hear from my ancestors before I proceed. In the meantime, you might want to try going to see a woman named Wanda. She has a Sokovian accent and can read minds. She found an entire research paper on what could be happening with our minds. I wasn’t listening at the time, but there is some truth there.”

 

Tony tilts his head. “Wanda, huh? A last name? Location? Anything?”

 

“Every time I have seen her, she has come to me. I think she might be ashamed of her home.”

 

“I literally walked the streets with a freakin’ nomad earlier. Nothing could ever be as low as that. This Wanda chick has nothing to worry about,” Tony says seamlessly, already turning to walk away. “Reads minds, huh? Interesting,” he mutters to himself, already envisioning his lab back in Venice.

 

T’Challa stops him though. “Wait!” Tony turns back around. “Wanda is very sensitive. I feel she is the same age as us, but she acts much younger. Not immature, just youthful. She reminds me of my younger sister in this way. I am afraid she may not be able to handle the bonds all at once. I know I am not the first you have met, and I know Wanda will probably not be the last. Please be gentle with her. She deserves it.”

 

Tony smirks. “Quite protective of her, are you?”

 

“I regret how I spoke to her the last time she was here. It was only the second time, too, but the first time she was here, we were so lovely to each other. I’m afraid I broke whatever trust she had built between us.”

 

“I’m sure everything’s gonna be fine,” Tony says flippantly. “Well, I’m off to go see if my brain can find Wanda. Good luck with your ancestors.”

 

T’Challa smiles, and Tony can tell its genuine. It makes his insides go warm for a minute. “Thank you, Tony. And good luck with Wanda. I hope you two can figure out what’s really going on with us.”

 

“Trust me,” Tony says, and it sounds like a pledge, “I’m not stopping until I do.”

 

.

 

**NEW YORK CITY, 12:15 PM**

The middle of his shift is the worst part. Steve has so much going on at once that he feels like his brain’s about to explode. He has to focus on the job, which is a process in and of itself, he’s hungry, and on top of all of that, he now has to worry about the new problem worming its way into his brain.

 

He’s imagined two different men so far. Unless they weren't imaginary and he's actually speaking to two different people in two different countries.

 

The second one he met, the meditator, seemed like he was somewhere in India, or somewhere recluse, at least. Steve wonders what his story is, but part of him knows that, now that they’ve met and connected, it wasn’t the last they’ll see of each other.

 

Steve isn't entirely sure how his brain and the connections work, but he does know that he misses the man with the silver arm. Oddly enough, his murderous stare and overall brooding demeanor was a source of calm for Steve. A calm he wants to get back to as soon as possible.

 

He’s still kicking himself for never bothering to ask him for a name, but other things seemed to always take precedent, like the man getting shot up with a shit ton of mystery drugs. Like, enough to put a horse down, it looked like. 

 

Before his mind can get away from his again, the radio in he and Sam’s police car starts up, crackly voice coming in through the speaker.

 

_“All units, we have reported gunfire on Canal Street. That’s all units, reported gunfire on Canal Street. Over.”_

 

Sam picks the device up quickly, speaking into it with rapid efficiency while Steve makes a practiced U-turn so they can drive to Canal Street, a mere three streets away. “This is Unit 127, we copy. Over.”

 

Steve turns on the siren and starts speeding down the crowded, narrow streets, cursing to himself at the lack of room for him to work with right in the heart of New York City. Beside him, Sam is fully alert, watching carefully for signs of trouble on their way to Canal Street.

 

He hears the next gunshot before he can even stop the car, screeching to a stop right next to an alley that leads to an abandoned building. Steve and Sam jump out of the car, pulling their guns out and racing into the building.

 

Steve feels his heart in throat, his nerves off the wall and his brain thinking of everything else but what he’s supposed to be thinking. He hopes it doesn't get in the way of keeping he and Sam safe.

 

Sam leads the way down the alley and into the building, slowly creeping up the stairs with Steve checking behind them every few seconds, scanning side to side as Sam moves forward at snail’s pace. The floorboard creaks under him, and Steve wishes he could make himself lighter.

 

Another gunshot goes off and they know the source. Sam takes off, leaving Steve to trail after him, pointing his gun down every hallway he passes.

 

He stops at a room and sees it. A boy, who can’t be older than fourteen, slumped against the wall and bleeding from his abdomen. He has a hand held to try and staunch it, but Steve knows that won’t be enough. The boy looks down at the ground and Steve follows his gaze, realizing he has a gun. The boy picks it up and points it at him for a few seconds, before whimpering and giving up, dropping it back on the ground.

 

Steve tentatively walks closer to him, sliding his own gun back in his holster. “Kid, let me help you. What’s your name?”

 

The boy looks at him for a few seconds, looking away when he replies. “Miles.”

 

“Miles, I’m Steve.” He hears Sam come up behind him and swear under his breath. “I’m gonna get you somewhere that can fix you, okay?” He helps Miles slide his jacket off and holds it against his stomach. “Use this to staunch the bleeding. Press as hard as you can, got it?”

 

Miles nods. “Got it.”

 

Steve turns around to see Sam shaking his head. “Sam, we gotta get this kid out of here. Call an ambulance.”

 

Sam tuts. “Ain’t no ambulance driving they asses all the way out here for some gunshot victim. Not in enough time for him to live anyway. This the raw part of town, Rogers. Think about it.”

 

“Well…” Steve trails off, thinking, “we need to help him.”

 

He puts one arm around Miles’ back, the other hooked under his knees. He ignores Sam’s indignant “what the hell, Rogers?!” and carries Miles out of the building and to the cruiser. “Keys are in my back pocket, Wilson. Get them. I’m staying in the back.” Sam retrieves the keys and Steve slides into the backseat carefully, placing Miles so his head is on his lap.

 

“Comfortable?” Steve asks, and Miles nods. “We’re gonna get you to a hospital as soon as possible.”

 

“Okay, Steve,” Miles mumbles, closing his eyes for a little before opening them again, glassy with tears. “I don’t wanna die.”

 

Steve sighs. “I’m not gonna let you die, you hear me? It’s not happening.”

 

He sits back and prays to any god out there that he’s telling the boy the truth.

 

.

 

**MOSCOW, 7:15 PM**

Natasha, subconsciously, knows that allowing a notorious Romanian/Russian/German/probably-something-else-after-all-these-years assassin called The Winter Soldier wasn’t entirely the smartest decision she has ever made, but it wasn't one she was regretting entirely.

 

James told her earlier that he had around seven more hours until the effects of the drugs wore off entirely and he was able to have complete autonomy over his thoughts and actions. The science and procedure surrounding James’ handling is still a mystery to Natasha, but she hasn't questioned him on it. He looked upset enough about forcing himself to withdraw from the drugs and leave HYDRA completely. Natasha doesn't want to add to his distress.

 

Though she is curious about why he's just decided to cut all ties with HYDRA. James’ answer didn't clear anything up for her.

 

“I’m trying to make myself better for someone,” is all he said, and Natasha has no idea what the hell that means, or who the hell he could've met in the time she's spent with him besides herself, and she knows for a fact he wasn't referring to her.

 

Nevertheless, James and Natasha had spent a good amount of time sitting around and doing nothing. Natasha was lucky enough to have the day off, because there wasn't a lot of explaining to do in the way of bringing the Winter Soldier to rehearsal.

 

Natasha sighs, the show is only a few months away, and she feels like her life is caving in on her.

 

“Hey, what is on your mind?” James asks, though his voice is awkward. He hasn't entirely figured out the mechanics of human emotions. Maybe with some more time…Natasha internally chuckles at the thought.

 

Natasha shakes her head. “It’s nothing. I’m just thinking.”

 

“Seems like a lot is happening up there,” James remarks, trying to form some semblance of a smile, but the grimace gracing his face is much more in-character. Natasha simply hums in response.

 

After a few minutes more of silence, James breaks it again. “I am afraid of HYDRA finding me.” His voice is vulnerable and small enough that Natasha looks away from the dirty window of her apartment. James is sitting on her mattress, his knees pulled to his chin, eyes on the floor. Natasha keeps quiet, giving James room to elaborate on his own.

 

“I tried to escape once, a long time ago. They sent me to a small town in Romania, and suddenly my mind transported me to many years ago, when I was a child. I had not thought about my life before HYDRA in such a long time, and the sudden influx of memories took a toll on me. I waited out the drug and managed to outrun my handlers long enough to find somewhere to recuperate. I spent three days just thinking, writing out as many memories as I could before they got to me again. By the time they found me, I had written an entire notebook’s worth of memories.

 

“When they took me back, they burned the notebook in front of me. They told me my memories were worth shit, and that if I ever tried to escape again, they would burn my brain instead. Electrocution. It is an idea they have been toying with for awhile; hooking my brain up, tracking my electrodes and shocking me until I reach the edge of the breaking point. I would lose my memories, my sense of identity, my entire being would be fried away. I would be shot up with more drugs and tortured into complacency. I am afraid that if they catch me this time, this is what they will do to me. It has long since passed the average amount of time it takes me to complete a mission so simple. I grow more and more afraid as time goes by.”

 

Natasha tries to breathe, but it gets stuck in her throat. She had known HYDRA to be cruel—they had tortured her into complacency too—but she hadn't expected such a strong emotional reaction from herself just from hearing James’ experiences. She silently vowed to do anything and everything in her power to accomplish that goal.

 

“Why are you leaving, then? Wouldn't it be easier to go back and fake complacency? To not live through that level of torture?” she asked before, but the answer didn't satisfy her. Now, she's going to get the information she's looking for.

 

James sighs, running a hand over his face. He looks exhausted. “I…saw someone. In the van outside the nightclub where I killed Fury, and again in the bathroom after I had killed him. A few hours later, I was in his apartment, and then he saw me in the chair they keep for me while they drug me up. I have no idea who he is, or where he is, but I know he is out there. I want to find him. I want to know more about our connection.”

 

Natasha stares for a long time. “So you’re seeing someone? Like hallucinations?”

 

“No!” James looks frustrated. “It is not a hallucination, I know it is not. I saw him too often for it to be that, and too vividly. He does not just come to me, I came to him once. I do not know how to describe it.”

 

Still unconvinced, Natasha just nods and turns back to the window. Maybe James’ hallucinations were a product of HYDRA’s drugs. It would certainly be explainable, after all of the other psychological torture James had described.

 

That night, however, while James slept on her mattress, Natasha was still sitting at the window when a woman appeared beside her, shivering and curling into the thin, linen jacket she was wearing.

 

“Ooh, it’s freezing here,” the woman says, teeth chattering and nose rosy, “but I love it. Chicago is known as the windy city after all.”

 

Natasha freezes, unsure of how to respond. After all, James had just described to her something very similar to what is happening now, and she had written it off as a byproduct of the drugs he was given. Now, though, she isn't so sure.

 

“Ah, I forgot. You may not realize what’s going on. Hi, I’m Wanda,” the woman holds out her hand.

 

When Natasha grabs it, the air around her shifts, getting significantly warmer, and she's in a different apartment. This one is cheap and small too, but the lighting is warmer and more inviting.

 

“This is where I live,” Wanda says, spreading her arms out and leaning back slightly. The two are still sitting cross-legged on the ground in the middle of what could be called a living room.

 

“Is someone here, Wanda?” a man sitting on the couch a few feet away says. 

 

Wanda nods. “Yes, she’s from somewhere cold. She hasn't spoken to me yet, but I’m working on it.” Wanda looks back at Natasha, smile wide still. “What’s your name? Where were you when I visited you?”

 

“Natasha,” Natasha replies, still uneasy, “I am from Moscow.”

 

Excitement brews in Wanda’s eyes. “Pietro, she’s from Moscow! Her name is Natasha!”

 

The man on the couch—Pietro, seemingly—nods in appreciation. “Ask her if she's met anyone else. See if you know the same people.”

 

“Have you been visited by anyone else?” Wanda relays the question, excitement still spilling over her in waves. It nauseates Natasha, to be honest, but it reminds her of her days before the Black Widow project, when she was young and innocent and full of wishes for experiences.

 

“I’m not sure what visiting means,” Natasha admits, “but no, you’re the first one. The man sleeping on my mattress, though, he’s been visited by someone. I think, it sounded exactly like what just happened with us.”

 

Wanda hums. “Did he visit you? Was he there in person or was it him just visiting?”

 

“No, it was him in person,” Natasha answers, but as soon as she says it, she suddenly has doubts in her mind. Was James really there? Or was it another experience like the one she's having right now, with this Wanda woman?

 

“Still, I think he might be in our cluster. I need to start keeping a tally of everyone.”

 

Confusion muddles Natasha’s loud and alarming thoughts, but before she can ask anymore questions, she's back in her apartment in Moscow, staring out the window and sitting in the cold. She gets goosebumps because she had gotten used to the nice warmth of the apartment in Chicago.

 

Chicago. She had just travelled to Chicago. In her mind, apparently, if she’s going off of the little information Wanda and James gave her.

 

_Huh_ , she thinks mildly, _this could be interesting_.

 

.

 

**NEW YORK CITY, 5:15 PM**

After Steve leaves the hospital, Miles secured in a hospital bed, surviving and recovering from emergency surgery, he’s pacing his apartment again. Part of him wants to find himself back with the meditating man, but no matter how hard he strains his mind to do so, he's still stuck in NYC.

 

Frustrated, Steve flings himself on his couch, resting his head on the back of it, groaning and straining his neck. He can’t even be bothered to care.

 

“I am back.”

 

Steve jumps, but his stomach immediately fills with warmth at the sound of the voice. He stands up quickly, seeing the man with the silver arm standing in his tiny kitchen, looking relatively at peace.

 

“What’s your name?” Steve asks hurriedly, “I’m Steve.”

 

“Steve,” the man says his name like a prayer. “I am James.”

 

“James,” Steve breathes, probably sounding like an absolute idiot.

 

He walks into the kitchen and meets James under the shitty, dim lighting. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out and tucks a strand of long hair hanging in front of James’ eyes behind his ear, lightly caressing his cheek as he pulls his hand away. James holds his breath through it all, watching Steve intently. Steve feels like he's being hunted, but he says nothing on it. He likes feeling this way when he feels James’ eyes on him.

 

“I think,” Steve says, stepping back a little, “you need to explain some things to me.”

 

James’ expression turns solemn, and Steve prepares himself for the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i realize that it's been 5 chapters and the characters have made exactly 0 progress in finding each other/figuring out what's going on but just bare with me ok


End file.
